


What The Water Gave Me

by Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee



Series: Shades of Water [1]
Category: Aidean- Fandom, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Character Death, Blow Jobs, Cabin Fic, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hurt! Aidan, Hurt! Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Drowning, POV Dean, Plot With Porn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Whump, Wilderness, aidean, tragic poetic fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-29 16:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 104,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee/pseuds/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee
Summary: Dean is torn apart by the loss of his love. As his life falls apart around him, he embarks on a favour for a friend that will change him forever.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Allow me, if you will, to set the scene.  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Tags will be added at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> A moodboard for each chapter of this this fic can be found at http://vennor.tumblr.com

** Prologue **

 

Dean’s pale reflection frowns at him as his hands fumble with his tie. He huffs in frustration and pulls the mangled knot out, starting over for the third time. His fingers tremble as he messes up yet again, but this time he yanks the damn thing from his neck and throws it angrily on the floor as he kicks the mirror; sinking heavily down onto the bed behind him and nesting his forehead in his palms. He looks down at his shoes, but all he can think is how ridiculously shiny they are – almost comically so. A gentle touch lands on his arm, and he looks up mournfully under the heels of his hands.

“Let me,” Adam says, and he lifts his chin to fix the tie. “There.” He tucks it into place carefully, smoothing the front of Dean’s crisp white shirt.

“Thank you.”

The sound doesn’t come out, and Dean mouths it instead. Adam nods anyway, turning to the desk to grab Dean’s wallet and keys.

“The car’s here. Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispers, but then he bites his lip and shakes his head; and he shakes and he shakes and he shakes it and before he knows it there are tears running off the shoes and snot from his nose hangs dangerously close to his collar. Adam kneels in front of him, sighing softly as he hands him a tissue.

“Oh Dean. You don’t have to, you know.”

Dean just looks at him tiredly through stinging eyes.

“I do,” he whimpers. “I have to go.”

 

* * *

  

**Lee Pace. Beloved son and friend. 1979-2016.**

Dean stares blankly at the dark polished headstone. It doesn’t look real, like it’s a prop from a film. A mound of white flowers sits on top of the grave where Dean finds himself standing alone after the gathered crowd has dissipated.

 _“It’s been so nice,”_ they all said. He wonders how a funeral can be nice. _“You did a marvellous job. He would have loved it.”_

He doesn’t want to Lee to have loved it. He doesn’t want Lee to be proud of him.

He just wants Lee.

A light rain is falling and Dean would be cold if he could feel anything at all. He’d been handed a black umbrella at some point during the ceremony, but it lies open and upside down behind him, filling with water. He clutches tightly to a single white rose behind his back. He has been trying to place it on the grave for ten minutes now, but he can’t do it. It seems to him that by walking away he is going to have to really accept that Lee won’t just come slinking round the door of the house Dean shares with Richard, announcing with a laugh that it’s all been a fantastic joke and _wow, didn’t they get one over Dean this time?_

“Dean?” a low voice murmurs. Richard is red-eyed and sombre in his long coat, raindrops clinging to the black wool. “It’ll be getting dark soon.”

Dean doesn’t move.

“I know you don’t care. But I care. Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Dean looks stricken but he knows Richard is right.

“I need to... I want...” he gasps, his voice broken and raw, sounding odd even to his own ears. 

“What do you want, love?” Richard asks quietly.

Dean shakily holds the flower out to Richard.

“Can you?”

Richard takes it from him gently and with as much grace as he can muster he places it delicately on top of the pile. Dean lets out a choked sob and Richard envelopes him in a hug, feeling the smaller man’s knees buckle.

“I’ve got you. Come on,” he whispers into his wet blonde curls.

Dean wonders if they’ve got it all wrong, and in fact it’s him that has died instead; because that’s definitely how he feels.


	2. Clinomania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clinomania (n.) Excessive desire to stay in bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise to any Lee fans! Originally this work was going to be a real exploration of grief and love, with Dean losing Aidan; but I couldn't bear to kill off Aidan at all, let alone think of how that could possibly have anything other than a tragic ending. I really wanted Richard to be in the story, hence the slightly more obscure Dean/Lee pairing. 
> 
> Thanks so much to those of you who have already left kudos and comments, it really does mean a lot. 
> 
> I promise it's not all going to be doom and gloom ;)
> 
> Aesthetic for this chapter is over at http://tmblr.co/ZT6A-f2LVQsL_

“How are you feeling Dean?”

He looks up in surprise at the woman sitting calmly in the armchair across the room; hands clasped together in his lap as he sits on the edge of the sofa. He’d almost forgotten she was there, sitting in silence as he has been for the past few minutes. His feet wriggle in his boots, one foot rolled to the side as he always does when he’s feeling awkward.

_Feel? How the fuck do you think I feel?_

“Uhh... good. I mean, not _good_ but... I’m ok, I guess,” he rambles, looking back down at his hands.

“I’m glad to hear it. As you know Dean, we discussed at our last session that there’s no right way to grieve, no right or wrong way to feel. You could be feeling just about any emotion that you could conceive, even if one day you feel one way and the next completely differently - that’s all fine and completely normal and part of the process.”

Dean wishes that he could feel anything at all.

“I’d like it if you could tell me about Lee.”

Dean takes a ragged breath. What could he possibly tell her about Lee?

“He is-” He blinks heavily and chews his lip as he corrects himself. “He was...”

_The other half of Dean?_

_A reason for living?_

_The house in which he lived?_

In losing Lee he’s lost his _home_ and he’s taken all his belongings with him too – laughter and the ability to breathe and yes, hope.

_Lee was cool air and cheekbones; a lazy laugh and chameleon eyes – sometimes the deepest green, almost blue in the sun._

_Breath-taking beauty._

_Fucking elegant._

_Sharp angles, smooth curves. He was Dean’s North, a constant by which he could always find himself again. A pain in the ass. He was Dean’s future, and he has woven himself so tightly into Dean’s past that he can’t even separate what and who he was and wasn’t Before Lee._

_Endless long limbs._

_Charming. Talkative. Warm. Sulky. InfuriatingKindGanglyLazyHilariousSexyAloofPassionateCalmKindWittyExhausting_

_Alive_

_Sparky alive_

_Lee had been so fucking ALIVE._

He stares at his untied shoelace for a long time. He doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t want to share him. By telling her he’ll be giving parts of Lee away, breaking him up and handing him out in small parcels of words until there’s nothing left for Dean to keep hold of.

“He was... everything,” Dean falters.

The counsellor looks sadly at him and scribbles on her notepad.

 

* * *

 

Dean is woken by a soft knocking at his door.

“Dean?”

He doesn’t reply. He hears Richard clear his throat.

“It’s just that Lee’s parents are leaving town today, and they wanted to know if there was anything else of his that you wanted to keep.”

Dean turns over under the bundled covers and stares sullenly at the wall.

“Dean?”

“I don’t want anything. I told you already,” he says irritably.

“Right, I know that; it’s only that I don’t want you to regret it.” Richard leans his forehead on the closed door between them. “They’re leaving soon and I just want to be sure.”

Dean shuts his eyes and sighs deeply. He’s thought about it. At first he wanted to keep everything, but in the end looking at it all just makes it seem harder that Lee won’t be coming back for it. It’s bad enough having to come home to the house that they practically shared, given the amount of time Lee spent round here. To the bed that they slept in together.   
  
In any event, there’s nothing on the list of things he can’t bring himself to get rid of that his parents could possibly want to take. Lee’s shampoo in the shower. Bottles in the drinks cupboard. The blue cheese dressing in the fridge that no-one else likes. These are the things that are hardest to part with. He clutches the long silver chain that Lee used to wear around his neck and winds it around his fingers. That’s enough for him.

 

* * *

 

He feels a plate colliding with his forearms.

Dean raises his face from his palms just enough for his eyes to peer over the tips of his fingers, elbows still propped on the dining table. In front of him sits a sloppy-looking doorstop sandwich – _peanut butter-something_ , but he slides it away with a groan.

“Not hungry,” he mumbles.

He knows he’s being babysat. Richard hasn’t said as much but whenever he can’t be home, either Luke or Adam miraculously show up under the pretence of just having been passing-by. It’s obviously Luke’s turn today; which, Dean thinks, is a bloody shame – he means well but he’s less subtle than a motorboat in a paddling pool and could really do with looking up the definition of tact.

“Mate, you haven’t eaten for days. You’ll get sick,” Luke shakes his head but doesn’t waste any time in pulling the plate over to where he’s sitting opposite Dean and starting on the sandwich himself.

“Look, I know you are feeling really shitty right now,” he continues through his mouthful, flecking the table with crumbs, “But he’s not comi..." He coughs, "I mean, would he want you to be like _this_?” Luke gestures lamely towards Dean. “Nah man. He wouldn’t want you to be like this. What would he do if it were the other way round and he was sitting here now?”

_He’d probably fucking head butt you._

“Well I appreciate the concern but seeing as he _isn’t,”_ Dean hisses as he scrapes back his chair, “You’ll just have to bear with me doing it my way.”

 

* * *

 

Richard wishes he didn’t remember, but he does. Adam Brown, bearer of bad news. He’d been in the middle of a publishing meeting when his phone rang. He’d ignored it of course, but it rang, and it rang, and then rang again.

“You need to come,” he’d said. “It’s Lee.”

Richard had run to the bathroom and promptly thrown up.

_He crashes through the front door and pushes past a milk-white Adam._

_“Where is he?”_

_Adam gestures limply towards the bathroom. Richard looks horrified._

_“He asked me to leave him. Don’t worry,” he stutters as Richard’s expression turns to anger, “I’ve been checking. He’s in the shower.”_

_Richard turns the handle as softly as he can manage and inches into the room, the cloud of steam obscuring his vision. As it clears he can just make out the hunched form in the corner of the shower._

_“Oh god, Dean.” The words barely come out, scraping his throat on their way. There’s no movement from the cubicle, and a new kind of worry grips him. He moves a little closer._

_“Dean? It’s Richard.”_

_This time the bundle shifts a little. Dean barely looks up but Richard can see enough of him now. It only takes him that moment to learn what somebody looks like when they have broken. To realise that he will never, ever be able to fix this._

_Dean closes his swollen eyes again, as if he can’t keep them open under the weight of tears._

_“Is this real?” he whispers._

_Richards’s heart twists and his body wracks as he nods. He doesn’t say anything else, because there are no words for this. Instead, he climbs into the shower with Dean, nudging him gently along until they are side by side, backs pressed against the tiles. Dean is fully dressed and violently shivering despite the warmth of the water. He pulls Dean into him, tucking his chin on top of his head._

_“I threw up,” Dean whimpers._

_“Me, too.”_

_Neither of them moves until long, long after the water has run cold._

 

* * *

 

Dean lies in his bedroom with the curtains closed and nothingness washes over him like a lazy wave. Luke had come in earlier, jostling the bed as he sat heavily on it, chewing with his mouth open, and Dean kicked like an angry toddler and dragged the covers up over his head, yelling, “Ugh, out will you?”

Luke had just dug deeper into his takeout box and shoveled in another forkful, sticky sweet-and-sour sauce dripping down his chin.

“You’ll have to get up eventually, you know. Can’t stay in here forever,” he chirped through his food.

“Go _‘way_ ,” Dean mumbled from under the duvet. He’ll stay here as long as he damn well likes. Luke hopped up and yanked back the curtains, making Dean cringe even in his blanket fort.

“You’re missing the best part of the day. Anyway buddy I’ve got to head off, I’ll see you soon.”

 

All Dean is missing is the best part of himself.

 

* * *

 

He learns to be afraid not of the dark but of the sunrise. Nightfall comes with its own set of demons, and Richard does his best to hold him together; but by and large he is left to himself and his relentless ache. Tears - like sleep - either come or they don’t, but it’s the mornings he hates now. Whatever fitful rest he gets is broken when he wakes, and every time - every single morning; he forgets for just a moment, groping for the warm body next to him that is never there, just for the time it takes for his foggy brain to shift into gear. And then the heartbreak hits him all over again and he shoves his fist in his mouth to keep the sob in, like some sort of bizarre reverse nightmare.

The worst part, though, is that during the day he’s expected to be _alright_. To be able to hold it together to a degree where he can at least function. People talk about ‘moving on’ and of Lee being in a ‘better place’.

“Three months,” they say; “Lee wouldn’t want you to be sad forever!”

Dean wishes he was just sad. Sad could be fixed with a joke or a good night out.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe you should go on a date,” Luke suggests. Dean pulls a disgusted face, but he continues, “Mate, I’m not saying you should get into another relationship, just that – you know, it might be fun. Take your mind off things. What about a girl this time? Mix things up a bit? Then it wouldn’t be so –”. Luke never gets to finish his sentence, because Dean has leapt up and grabbed him by the collar, shoving him roughly backwards. Richard stands up hurriedly from the table where they’d been quietly eating dinner, alarmed.

“Now, lads...”

“Listen, you prick,” Dean growls, looking like he is just about ready to murder Luke. “Understand one thing. Aside from the fact that taking it in turns to go out with a guy or a chick isn’t how my life fucking _works_ , I don’t want to _date_ anyone. Is that really so hard for you to get into your thick skull? This wasn’t just some high school crush. This was _Lee._ I’m fucking glad it’s been so easy for you to forget all about him but he was IT for me. I don’t want –”, but Richard is pulling at his shoulder now, and he reluctantly releases Luke and storms out the room.

Richard sighs.

“Leave it, Luke. You bloody idiot.”

 

* * *

 

Dean turns his collar up against the frigid wind and glowers at the flint sea and the flint sky and the flint pebbles and the white sun.

 

He scrapes together an angry handful of shingle and takes his time throwing it fiercely piece by piece back onto the beach; and when he’s run out he just goes on flinging imaginary specks of it until he’s so cold he can’t feel his toes and his teeth are chattering. They drove out here, Lee and he. Not very often, but Dean is running out of places that belong to the both of them that aren’t slowly getting filled with memories that don’t include Lee.

 

 _I hate you today_ , he thinks. He hates that Lee quit. That he gave up and died so easily. _So fast_ , they said. _He wouldn’t have known a thing._ As if somehow that’s supposed to make it better.

 _Fucking bastard._ _You left me here._

Gone where Dean can’t follow.

Dean slumps back against the cold hard pebbles and closes his eyes. The flat light still seeps through his eyelids like all the colour has been leeched from the world, and he wonders if he had any tears left to cry if they would be white too.


	3. Toska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toska (n.) A dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a spiritual anguish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, to tighten that screw just a little more in case you were in any doubt over how Dean is feeling. Don't worry, we will be getting stuck in soon!

“What shall I _do_ , Rich?” Dean is lazing on the sofa, looking aimlessly out of the large wall of windows at the front of the room while Richard makes their dinner in the kitchen.

“Well. I don’t know,” he says diplomatically, wiping his hands on the tea-towel and planting them firmly on the breakfast bar that divides the space. “What do you want to do?”

Dean huffs.

“I just feel like... I’m so bored of being sad and useless. I don’t want to _do_ anything. But I can’t keep doing nothing.”

“Why don’t you get back into the shed? Haven’t you got any orders?”

Dean sighs as he thinks of his workshed in the rambling unkempt space they affectionately call a garden out the back, untouched since Lee died. He hasn’t been in the mood for making furniture.

“I’ve got a few commissions, but they’ve told me they’re happy to wait as long as I need.”

“Maybe now is as good a time as any?”

Dean chews his lip and hums a non-committal reply.

 

* * *

  

The lock creaks with lack of use and Dean enters the workshop almost nervously. The air is thick with dust and wood shavings caught like glowing snowflakes in the weak shafts of sunlight slicing through the windows. Everything is right where he left it. His eyes run down the long central bench, vices and clamps fixed to the side; tools left neatly in the racks he has made along the walls. He likes to be organised in here. Tidy stacks of timber line the edges of the shed. The half-built frame of a chair sits waiting for him on the bench. The familiar smell threatens to overwhelm him, and he’s sure he can pick up a trace of Lee’s aftershave.

_“Come on babe,” Lee laughs, “Are you sure you won’t come out?”_

_“Nah, I’ve got to crack on with this. You go, though. Have fun. I’ll see you later.” Dean leans in and kisses him._

_“Looking forward to it,” Lee grins into his lips._

He swallows and moves down the space, rolling up his sleeves. He looks down at the plan he’s left on the bench, checking his measurements and making a few marks along the board he needs to work on. He picks up a chisel but as he goes to make a notch in the wood he slips and rams it hard into the soft flesh between his finger and thumb.

“Shit,” he thinks as he watches the blood trickle down the V of his hand and along his wrist. He grabs a cloth and presses it to the cut. Turns out he isn’t ready for this after all.

 

* * *

Dean frowns at the array of bottles on the shelf. The bottle of Bulleit stares resolutely back at him. He’d forgotten about it. Dean was sure Richard would have disposed of it by now but here it is, barely touched and taunting Dean. Lee always drank bourbon but Dean didn’t have much of a taste for it. He scowls as he grabs it, reaching for a glass but then thinking better of it. He scrapes a chair back from the dining table and sets the bottle down in front of him, flicking on the sound system as he goes. Richard has gone out so it’s not like he will come in, fussing over the noise. The Doors wail about being riders on the storm and Dean unscrews the lid and takes a deep drink. He coughs.

_Christ. This is disgusting._

Doesn’t stop him for going back for more though.

He drinks as much as he can as fast as he can.

He wants oblivion.

 

He sings under his breath as his hands smooth across the surface of the table - the table that he made. He remembers Lee sitting on the long bench in his shed, swinging his lanky legs and whistling while Dean did his thing, watching him give life to this piece of furniture. He remembers how Lee would always smoke in the workshop, and whenever Dean asked him to go outside he’d say, “Sure, babe,” and then just stay right where he was. Dean would just roll his eyes but he never made him go. He remembers how Lee had bent him over that table when he’d finished and he thinks of how it felt, the combination of their sweat _drip-drip-drip_ onto the surface in time with the rhythm that Lee had set.

He stifles a groan and leans his cheek against the wood, as if he can somehow draw out the scent of him even though it’s been months since he made it, and six more since Lee has died, and a thousand meals have come and gone in that time.

 

And that’s how Richard finds him. A sticky pool of bourbon ripples in front of Dean’s nose as he breathes heavily across it. Richard crouches lightly, prising the empty bottle from his hand. Dean stirs but he’s so wasted that his only action is to slide off the chair. Richard catches him just before he hits the floor and throws his arm round Dean’s shoulders, hauling him up and steering him away from the table.

“C’mon, Deano, time for bed yeah?”

“Nnnff,” he replies, nuzzling his head into Richard’s shoulder and allowing himself to be shepherded into his room. “Can’t remember,” he mumbles. “Can’t ‘member...what his hands look like.”

Richard gives him a gentle push and he sags heavily onto the bed, swaying slightly while he sits and lets Richard gently take off his shoes. He tries to think of words but his head is thick from drinking and crying all he can do is clench and unclench his fingers, until Richard gives him a nudge and rolls them both down onto the mattress, curling himself around Dean’s back and wrapping his arms around Dean’s chest.

“It hurts.” Dean is clenching his teeth and Richard can feel him trembling underneath his forearms.

“What hurts? You have a headache?” Richard asks softly.

Dean just shakes his head and lets out a dry sob; clutching at the front of his shirt where his heart used to be and yanking at the fabric. “Make it stop Rich,” he grinds out. “Please just make it stop.”

 

* * *

 

It’s late morning by the time Dean pads sheepishly into the kitchen. He’d woken in his bed alone but he can tell from the dent in the pillow that Richard stayed there with him. His head is throbbing and his mouth feels like sandpaper. He’d hoped that Rich might have gone straight out; that he’d have time to straighten both the house and himself out, to remove the evidence of his disintegration; but of course he’s right there, leaning against the breakfast bar wearing a neat sweater and a concerned expression.

“Would you like some coffee?” he ventures, and Dean gives a small nod but can’t bring himself to look him in the eye just yet. He picks up the full cup that Richard has set on the counter for him, along with the painkillers that he’s wordlessly placed alongside it, and wanders towards the window.

 

Neither of them speaks for a long time but Dean knows Richard is watching him.

“You know,” Richard begins, “I don’t have any answers, Dean. If I could take this away from you, I would...” he trails off, trying to find the right words. “I’ve been thinking. I need some photographs for my book. It’s almost finished but there’s really a lot of room for improvement with the imagery. I was wondering if... if you’d accept a job offer.”

Dean inclines his head slightly. Richard joins him at them window.

“You know I’m the last person to tell you to get out and get on with living, Dean. But I think this might be good for you. Fresh air, the forest, some hiking. I know those are things you enjoy. And all those things aside,” Richard winces slightly, “I know you haven’t worked for months and I’d be paying you a lump sum in advance.”

Dean breathes in deeply and sighs. He’s too tired to put up a fight. And frankly, does he even want to? He’s exhausting himself. Six months. Maybe Richard is right. He can’t keep going on like he did last night. He can't eat and he can't sleep. He still checks his phone to see if he has any missed messages.

He’s not exactly doing well in terms of being a functional human.

“What exactly did you have in mind?”


	4. Litost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Litost (n.) A state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery.
> 
> Possible trigger for drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to those of you that have kindly taken the time to give kudos and write comments. This is quite honestly only the second piece of fiction I have ever written (of any kind), so I'm always very open to suggestions and concrit too!
> 
> Aesthetic for this chapter is over @Vennor on Tumblr.

Dean shifts his pack from where it’s rubbing on his shoulders. He’s not unfit, but it’s further than it had looked on the map when he and Rich had planned his route this morning, and he takes a moment to catch his breath as he takes in his surroundings. It’s been a few weeks since he begrudgingly agreed to accept Richard’s offer, and since then the other man has been buzzing around excitedly, pointing out potential locations and detailing what he needs Dean to shoot to complete his book. He doesn’t know a whole lot about architecture – only what he learned from Lee, really; but Richard seems happy with what he’s done so far and he has to admit it’s been great to have a distraction. He likes the concept of Richard’s latest project – the design and innovation of cabins and hideaways. It’s not like the sleek, minimalist buildings Lee had worked on, but visiting these tiny dwellings in the woods feels comforting to Dean.

 

Richard had heard via a friend that there was a small lakeside cabin out here. It’s a half hour drive out of town to where he dumped the car at the end of the road, and he’s been walking for over an hour already along the rough but well-marked path. He hasn’t seen another soul since he left the house.

He takes a long swig of water before clipping the bottle back on to his bag and continuing up the slight hill. He can’t help but think on the evening he first met Lee. He’d been attending one of Richard’s work functions as a favour. Not normally his cup of tea, but Rich had begged and promised endless champagne; so who was Dean to argue? He remembers looking around the gilded room and making polite small talk, feeling like a fish out of water. Sure, he’s technically an artist, but he’s never been one for throwing himself out there. Dean had been awkwardly munching canapes and then there he was, standing in front of Dean all twinkling eyes and great hair and white teeth and asking if he would perhaps like another drink? And Dean actually turned to look behind himself because he couldn’t quite believe that this guy was talking to him; short, ordinary Dean, with his crumpled shirt that refuses to stay tucked in and hair that seems to have a mind of its own this evening. He stuttered something unintelligible through his mouthful of bruschetta and the man had laughed, and Dean knew then and there he was done for. He’d gone home with him that night, which is something Dean isn’t inordinately proud of, but he couldn’t help himself.

 

* * *

 

Dean reaches the top of the incline and is immediately awarded with a breath-taking view over the lake. It’s bigger than he thought it would be, the other end of it to the south well out of sight and melting into the still snow-tipped mountains that merge with the watery horizon. He’s on one side of a small inlet, and directly across from where he stands he spots what he has been looking for.

 

The cabin itself is set just slightly back from the shore, nestled in the dense greenery that clamours down the steep valley which runs up and away in to the hills behind. A winding path, punctuated by half-buried wooden sleepers acting as steps, leads down to the water where a long wooden T-shaped jetty has been built out over the lake.

It’s beautiful. Small, but perfectly formed. Dean automatically pulls out his camera and snaps away. The light is particularly flattering from here but he’d like to get closer too, to really pick out the detail of the structure. He makes his way round the inlet and continues taking shots until he finds himself standing on the dock. It bobs slightly with the movement of the water underneath it as he walks to the end.

 

It’s quiet. The air seems to reverberate with the lack of noise and Dean sways with the sweeping nothingness. A light cross-breeze whips his cheeks now that he is out of the shelter of the humid vegetation. The crispness of it reminds him of the way Lee used to make him feel in the beginning, like a breath he could never quite catch. Suddenly he feels like his ribs are too big for the skin that surrounds his chest, like his body is trying to turn him inside out.

 

Dean knows that Lee isn’t going to hear him screaming at the top of his lungs but he does it anyway. He howls until his throat is hoarse and burning and his eyes sting and the trees echo with ache. He howls until he can’t stand anymore and he crumples and his knees crash painfully into the wooden jetty. He howls until his chest feels like it’s been ripped open and every part of himself has been hauled out and all that’s left is the crushing weight of empty space.

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, lying prostrate on the rough sawn wood. He breathes in the smell of the calming amber water lapping just inches below him, peaty from the years of accumulated fallen leaves. The forest is oddly quiet after the vibration of his rage has faded.

 _Reverent_ , he thinks.

 

Maybe he should just lie here forever. His fingers stroke the planks, tracing knots in the wood. He doesn’t think he’d miss anything. It’s the easy option, really.

And yet.

He pushes himself up slowly and wipes the mess of his face on his sleeve. His temples are pounding and he knows his eyes are swollen, that he must look a real state. It’s cooler now and the palest purples tug at the edges of the sky, telling him it’s already late afternoon. He shifts around so his feet are hanging over the edge of the jetty and leans forward to dip his hand in the water. It’s cool but not unpleasantly so. Actually it feels nice, like liquid glass. He swirls his hand around for a while, watching ripples shoot away across the surface until they disappear. Then almost as if he is in slow motion, he tips himself forward and lowers himself in, clothes and boots and all. _Why the fuck not_.

 

It feels invigorating. He feels more alive in that moment than he has done in months. He treads water and scoops a handful over his puffy face. Then he kicks himself out into the expanse of the lake, swimming slowly away from the jetty. His clothes are heavy and his feet are clumsy in his boots, but he’s a good swimmer and he takes his time. He stops after twenty metres or so, turning to look back toward the cabin. It’s a good spot. He can see why someone would build something like this here.

 

A low white river of mist flows down the valley behind the structure, hugging the ground; tree ferns and pines poking ethereally out of the top. He shivers. The water is actually much colder than he’d bargained for. He guesses his hand only went as far as the sun-warmed surface, but now that he’s in the deep water he can feel his body starting to respond to the chill. Time to go. Propelling himself back to the jetty, he looks up to the level of the wood.

_Shit._

He can’t reach. He’s going to need a bit of a boost.

 

Taking a breath, he disappears smoothly beneath the surface; diving down feet-first until his connect with the uneven lake floor below him. His right foot rolls as he tries to plant them firmly, but he bends his knees and pushes off, moving up through the water until he stops just as his legs are at full stretch.

His head is still two feet under the surface.

His foot remains resolutely stuck to the bottom of the lake.

 

Almost forgetting he is underwater, his first reaction is to say, “Oh.” A stream of bubbles floats up in front of his face and he quickly clamps his mouth shut. He wriggles his foot, then kicks, but it’s to no avail. He’s got his boot wedged between two heavy stones. A fist grips his heart as panic rises inside him. He flails his arms and legs as wildly as the water will let him. It’s at this point he starts to feel the uncontrollable need to _breathe_. He’s running out of air, but he can’t think while his head is screaming UP! UP! UP! at him, and all he can manage is blind panic. He can’t seem to bend his body down to get to his foot with his hands. He knows that if he doesn’t reach the surface soon then it’s Game Over. _Thank you for playing._ He’s got to THINK. He stops kicking.

 

Dean is surprised by the clarity that suddenly falls upon him. He feels like he is somehow both in and out of his body, like he is watching this happen to himself. He’s struck with how many thoughts are going through his head in what must be, after all, not a very long space of time. Everything has slowed down. He realizes that it’s hopeless. He hopes Richard won’t mind that he left his wet laundry in the washing machine. _Crap_. Richard. He imagines him fretting at home when Dean fails to return. Feels guilty for how he is going to blame himself, thinking he should have seen some warning signs when he inevitably assumes that Dean did this on purpose. And his parents, god only knows what torture he’ll put them through... _Good one, Dean_.

 

He’s annoyed that nobody will find him, not for a long time, anyway. Most of all he feels an odd incredulity that this is actually happening. It’s a ridiculous situation. _You bloody moron._ Of all the stupid things he has ever done, this has got to top the list.

 

The agony of holding his breath finally becomes too much. He hadn’t realized drowning would be so painful. It always seemed to him like a sort of peaceful, lackluster way to go. He finds it odd that the overwhelming sensation of dying underwater is that of being on fire. When the breath comes, Dean is still just about conscious – which is a shame, he thinks; because he learns now that the only thing worse than running out of air is having to inhale water. It pours in through his mouth and his nose and his lungs scream and his vision starts to black around the edges; like the shutter of his camera in slow motion.

 

He watches the light flicker on the underneath of the surface of the water just inches above him. Quite beautiful, really. As his eyes roll back in his head he could swear he sees a dark shape looming towards him, but then, he supposes, as he slips from consciousness; that Death probably doesn’t wear hot pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Dean... What have you done?


	5. Quatervois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quatervois (n.) A crossroads; a critical decision or turning point in one's life

 

He doesn’t feel fingers tugging at laces, or his foot being roughly torn from his boot. He doesn’t feel the relief of bursting to the surface. He is almost thrown onto the wood, and long arms and legs follow Dean out of the water; breathlessly hauling themselves onto the deck. He doesn’t feel anything as his lungs are filled with borrowed oxygen, with someone else’s air.

 

* * *

  

Dean crashes back into bewildered consciousness with a start. He hasn’t a clue where he is but there’s something wrong. He can’t breathe. He’s gasping for air, a terrifying rasping noise; but it barely comes. His chest is already full but water burns uselessly in his lungs. Is this what being dead is like? He’s vaguely aware of someone leaning over him, a face in front of his, an ear to his mouth. He feels himself being rolled onto his side and suddenly he’s sick, so sick; brown tinny water pours out of his mouth and his nose and he wonders if it will ever end. Hands fuss at his neck, fingers pressing to check his pulse. He squirms to get away, but the hand finds his back and rubs between his shoulder blades. When he finally finishes vomiting he starts sobbing. Proper, ugly crying, and he tries desperately to stop; swallowing hard until he starts hiccupping instead.

A low voice says, “It’s alright, that’s it. You’re alright, I’ve got you.”

The arms and hands and voice gently roll him onto his back again, and a dripping wet brunet pops into focus. Brown eyes full of panic look into Dean’s, droplets of water collected along the dark lashes that frame them.

“Can you hear me?” he asks.

Dean gives a tiny nod.

“Bloody hell, you scared me. What were you _thinking?_ Are you hurt? Can you tell me your name?”

“D... Dean,” he wheezes. The man lets out a strangled sigh of relief, pushing himself up onto his knees. He covers his face with his hands for a moment and Dean hears him inhale a deep, shuddering breath. He shakes his head as drips fall from dark curls onto his already soaking jeans.

“Jesus. Stay here. I’m going to get a blanket, ok? Don’t move too much. Just keep taking deep breaths," he says as he uncovers his face and pushes himself up to his feet.

Dean watches the back of his heels disappear along the jetty at a jog.

He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to get his breathing to even out. Now that he’s out of the water he’s bloody freezing. His teeth chatter like machine gun fire and despite lying still he feels dizzy and weak. It hurts. Everything is too bright, and his ears ring with the sound of his body still screeching for oxygen.

The jetty bounces lightly as the man pounds back towards him and quickly covers Dean in a thick wool blanket. It’s scratchy but he feels instantly better.

“Do you know where you are? Can you follow my finger?” The man holds his finger up in front of Deans eyes and moves it from side to side.

Dean tracks it and stutters, “Lake. Couldn’t... couldn’t g-get out.”

He takes Dean’s arm again and pinches his fingernail, stilling and frowning intently as he checks his pulse at his wrist.

“Have you been drinking? Or... or drugs?” he asks nervously. 

Dean shakes his head and gasps, “No.”

“On any medication? Do you have any heart conditions?”

Dean tries to keep up but his head is throbbing. Once the man seems satisfied that Dean hasn’t been sick again he helps him to slowly sit up.

“There. We need to get you inside.” He motions to the cabin.

The man slides his arms under Dean’s armpits and knees, and carefully hauls him up.

“Ok?” he asks. “If you need to stop just tell me.”

Together they trudge along the dock, Dean cradled in his arms like a baby. They shuffle past a grey plaid jacket and a pair of scuffed brown boots discarded at intervals. They stop twice while Dean spits out more water but the man does a good job of holding him up and he carries him along the rough forest path and up the steps up to the door. He nudges it open with his thigh and deposits Dean in an armchair that he hooks with his foot and kicks into the centre of the space. He kneels in front of him and helps him out of his remaining boot and stiff jacket, and then reaches for Dean’s wrist.

“I’m sorry. Just want to check where you’re at. We need to get you to a doctor...” he trails off into silence as he counts. Giving a slight nod, he straightens up and chews at his lip. “You need oxygen, really, but,” he waves his hand around the cabin, “I haven’t exactly got any. Can you keep taking deep, slow breaths for me?”

Dean gives a shivery shrug but he manages, “I’m feeling better, actually. I’m just cold.” It’s not the entire truth, but in comparison to being stuck bug-eyed on the bottom of the lake he feels fantastic.

“Right. You, ahh... You need to take these off,” the man gestures awkwardly towards Dean’s sodden clothes.

Dean nods and shakily stands but falls over just as soon as he’s up. The man catches him just before he hits the floor.

“Easy does it. Here,” he says, “I’ll help”.

He eases Dean’s arms up and peels off his sweater and t-shirt. Dean would be embarrassed if he wasn’t thinking about how much his chest is burning and he wasn’t so damn cold. He realises that the other man is shaking too, and only now remembers that he must be freezing as well, standing as he is, barefoot and dripping onto the floor.

He looks down, but he’s confused to see a purple bloom spreading across the centre of his ribcage.

“What the..?”

“Shit, sorry. I had to rub pretty hard.”

“Huh?” Dean looks at the man in confusion.

“It was me... It’s called a sternum rub. It can bruise like that. I was trying to get you to come round. You were unconscious. You just about had a pulse but you’d stopped breathing. I had to... I had to breathe for you. If I’d been a few seconds longer...” He swallows and frowns as he points to Dean’s chest, “Does it hurt? I don’t think... I don’t think I broke anything.”

Dean just gapes, his face slack, his brain struggling to comprehend.

Dark eyes narrow at him.

“On the jetty? Just now. Mate, I thought you were... you were a goner there for a bit.”

Dean just looks slowly from the man’s worried face back down to his chest.

“Oh. Oh right. I didn’t realise.”

 

He had no idea how close he’d come. _Fuckfuckfuck._

What if his rescuer had taken a few seconds longer to reach him? Or worse, if he hadn’t seen him at all? His lungs are full of the other man’s air.

Suddenly he just really wants to be alone.

“I can do the rest,” he says quietly.

The man nods slightly and backs away looking apologetic.  

“I’ll find you something to wear.”

Dean works at his waistband with fumbling fingers. He’s not sure where to put the wet clothes so he rolls them into a ball and leaves them pooling water on the floor as he wraps himself back up in the blanket and curls himself back into the chair.

 

* * *

  

After a minute the man returns and holds out a small bundle.

“Sorry, it’s all I’ve got. You’re sort of smaller than me so... Anyway. They’re dry, at least.”

Dean stands again to take the clothes from him and turns shyly away, only wobbling slightly. Sliding into the grey jogging bottoms and black hoodie he realises they’re a little long but he pushes the sleeves up his arms. He’s still shivering, but it’s better. As he turns back around he sees that the man is still wearing the clothes he jumped into the lake with, and notices with horror that Dean has even managed to throw up on him. There’s now a trail of water all over the cabin and Dean hopes to god that he hasn’t robbed him of his only dry garments. The man has his back turned but Dean clears his throat and he looks round.

“Good. Better sit back down. If you’re alright for a minute I’ll just, ahh...” he says as he plucks at his dripping sweater.

“No, sure, absolutely. I’m fine,” Dean gabbles.

The man raises his eyebrows doubtfully but he pads out of the room anyway, climbing the ladder-like stairs to the platform above. Dean sinks back down into the seat but takes the opportunity to have a good look at the cabin. It’s a lot bigger than he had first thought. The main space downstairs is double height and the guy has manged to get some great windows that really frame the mountains beyond and throw fantastic light into the room. A long narrow worktop runs along one side which seems to serve as a sort of storage unit and kitchen area, a cast iron gas burner perched on the top at one end and an industrial metal sink sunk into the wood. In the corner is a log stove and neat stacks of cut firewood are piled around it. The chair that he sits in had been pulled up to the stove before it had been placed in the middle of the room for him, next to a packing crate that obviously serves as another seat, and he imagines it would be pretty cosy come nightfall. The ladder leads to what he can only guess is the sleeping area, a mezzanine level platform that must have a great view of the lake. It’s clearly a work in progress, noting the pile of tools and hastily stacked timber scattered in one corner, but heck it’s cool and it’s got a hell of a lot of promise.

 

Bare feet poke over the top of the ladder and the man reappears in a fresh pair of jeans and a white t-shirt.

“You’ve got my jumper, so I’m just going to head outside and grab my jacket and your stuff, then I’ll get the fire sorted. Alright?”

Dean gets a proper look at the other man now. He’s tall, but everyone is taller than Dean. Not skinny, but slim. Dean already knows his still-goosefleshed arms and shoulders are swimmer-solid, seeing as he’s been carried inside by them. He’s – _well, he’s hot_  – but it’s the eyes that have got him interested. Dean has always found it hard to photograph brown eyes, to get them to pop; but these seem to glow on their own, like they’re lit from the inside. His dark arched eyebrows are pressed low over his eyes and he’s frowning as he talks “...but that’s too dangerous and it’s getting dark now anyway, so I think it’s best that you stay here and then we will get you seen to first thing in the morning, if you trust me to look after you. Ok?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, sure. Perfect.” Dean snaps out of his daydream but reckons he’s probably missed something important. “Hey. I really am sorry about this,” he confesses, feeling terrible that the guy is now cold and very inconvenienced because of him. “I haven’t really said... Thank you. For saving me. And for the clothes,” he adds. “If you hadn’t shown up...”

Dean doesn’t want to think about it.

“Lucky for you I did, eh?”

The man just grimaces wryly as he pulls a cigarette pack out of his back pocket, knocking one out with his fist before folding his arms across his chest and tucking his hands round his sides.

“Don’t sweat it, Dean. Things happen. I’m just glad you’re alright. Like I said. I’ll just grab my jacket.”

 

* * *

 

By the time the man gets back in Dean has settled deeply in the chair with his eyes closed. He’s feeling wrecked. It’s finally catching up with him – the exertion of his breakdown, the panic under the water – and having been hauled out by this total stranger. He wonders how many kinds of terrible he must look after having bawled his eyes out and then nearly drowning and throwing up on himself.

The man treads gently around him and starts working at the fire, coaxing a flame out of a small bundle of kindling. Once he’s satisfied he closes the doors of the stove and looks up to find Dean watching him.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Well, I’m... ok. My chest hurts a bit. Alright - a lot. It’s like it’s burning. And I’m really tired.”

“That’s quite normal. You can have a nap, if you want. I still can’t believe... how well you seem. I just want to keep an eye on your coughing and we need to check through the night if you show any signs of getting a fever, ok?”

“Sure,” Dean says. “So - are you a doctor or something?”

“No, no,” the man mumbles. “Just had some training, that’s all.”

Training or not, Dean thinks he’s just about the luckiest bastard alive that it was this guy’s cabin.

“I’ve just thought. I don’t even know your name.”

The man straightens up, the boards creaking quietly under his feet as he stands. For the first time the near-perpetual frown that he's worn since Dean laid eyes on him slips, his forehead smoothing and instantly taking years away with it as the smallest hint of a smile flits across his lips.

“It’s Aidan,” he says softly. “Aidan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello, Mr. Turner.


	6. Metanoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metanoia (n.) The journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life.

The cabin sits in a sea of velvet black, only pinprick stars visible from the bare windows. The inside is lit by the orange glow of the stove and a few scant candles that Aidan has dotted about. There’s a pot of food heating up on the burner and they’re sitting by the fire to keep warm while they wait. Aidan explains that he’s recently picked up a generator for the place, but he’s bought a broken one to save money and he hasn’t quite gotten round to fixing it yet.

“It’s not much I’m afraid, but it’s hot,” Aidan apologises as he hands him a bowl of chili with a baked potato. His hands are still trembling but Dean supposes the water was properly freezing, actually; and if he’d been working outside before then maybe it’s taking him a long time to get warm. Dean takes the bowl gladly, wondering how long it’s been since he actually ate something - too long, judging by the way his stomach is growling - and digs in.

“Woah. Did you make this?” He says through a mouthful. “This is _fantastic_.”

“Ha. I wish I could say yes but... no. My housemate Gray makes stuff for me, I just bring it out here. I’m a terrible cook, actually. Pretty sure I could burn water,” Aidan admits.

Dean looks around in confusion.

“But... housemate? Don’t you live here?”

“Eh? Oh, no!” Aidan laughs. “That’d be a bit weird, wouldn’t it? I’m not an actual hermit! Nah. I rent a room in town. This guy’s girlfriend works away all week so I keep him company, I guess. Then she comes home at the weekend and usually I just prefer to come out here. Third wheel and all that.” He smiles sheepishly. “Like I said. I’m no chef but thankfully Graham is pretty great and doesn’t mind keeping me fed. Between you and me I think he’d just rather I didn’t ruin his kitchen. But hey – the skill is all in the reheating right?” Aidan grins properly now, flashing an array of beautiful teeth. Dean suddenly feels a lot warmer.

 

“That makes sense. I was wondering what you did out here the whole time. Lonely guy in the woods. Sounds like a premise to a murder novel.” Dean breaks off as soon as he realises what he’s said but thankfully Aidan doesn’t seem to have noticed. Dean turns his attention back to his food, but pauses worriedly with a forkful halfway to his mouth. “Wait, you’re not actually an axe murderer, are you?”

“You mean, did I throw myself in the lake after you, go to all that effort saving your life and then _share my dinner with you_ only so I can chop you up into small pieces?” Aidan snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Dean has to admit he has a fair point and smiles apologetically as he lazes back into the chair, gazing around the cabin.

“Did you build this?” he asks in admiration. He’s pretty handy with woodwork but this is no mean feat.

“Mmm,” Aidan hums, almost embarrassed.

“I mean, like from scratch? There was nothing here before?”

“Yep. I came across the land while I was hiking, and I don’t know it just felt... maybe it reminds me of home a bit. So I bought it. I used to have a tent but this felt like a better arrangement. It’s not finished, obviously; I’ve got big plans for it but I just never have quite enough time. I had a lot of help from Graham but he’s not often free these days. There’s the hassle of getting all the stuff here too...”

“Well I think it’s amazing. It’s going to be quite something when it’s done.” Dean says sincerely, looking up at the pitched roof.

Aidan flushes gently at the compliment. He clears his throat quietly. 

“Thanks. Uhm. So. You don’t have to tell me but seeing as you’re in my cabin... can I ask what you’re actually doing out here? I mean it’s none of my business but it’s not every day someone comes and bawls at my lake.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably.

“Were you watching me?”

Aidan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Well no, but I heard you. I was round the back working on the generator and I came to see what all the noise was about.”

Dean reddens and looks down at his knees.

“And you didn’t think to maybe come out and talk to me?”

“Well, if I’m honest, no. Didn’t seem like you were exactly in the mood for conversation. I thought you’d do whatever you needed to do then head off, but when I saw you get in the water I thought I’d better actually pay attention, and then when you didn’t come back up, I... I figured it was time to move it.”

“Oh.”

“If you don’t mind me asking - what made you get in the water anyway? You weren’t... weren’t trying to...?” Aidan doesn’t finish the sentence but his creased eyebrows give all the implication Dean needs.

“No. No!” Dean says emphatically, and for a second he wonders if that’s true but he isn’t, he wasn’t. It strikes him as odd – funny, almost; that for the last half year he hasn’t even been sure if he wants to keep living in the world without Lee in it, but as soon as he realised he was going to drown all he could think to do was stay alive. Fiercely, furiously, ferociously. Just keep living.

“Honestly.” He sighs. “It’s just that - I lost my partner recently and... so perhaps I haven’t been dealing with it very well. I came out here to do some work for a friend because I thought it might be good for me but... I don’t know. I just, _snapped_. I think I’d finally stopped crying long enough for the whole thing to really sink in. And then getting in... It seemed like a good idea?” He offers weakly. “The water was cold but it felt nice to feel _something_ , you know?” Dean shakes his head. No, Aidan wouldn’t know. “But seriously, I really just thought I’d put my head under for a second before I got out, and then my foot got stuck and... well. You know the rest.”

Aidan studies him for a while without saying anything, then blinks and simply says, “You must be devastated.”

Dean is slightly taken aback. He’s expecting a lecture on being a class A idiot, or on how he’s so sorry for his loss but that he shouldn’t be doing this to himself, or how it’s all part of a bigger plan and _blah blah blah;_ but it doesn’t come.

“What happened to her?” he asks.

Dean gulps a little and hopes he isn’t about to make the other man feel awkward. He’s always been very open discussing his bisexuality, but he still finds it can make other people uncomfortable.

“He... He had a brain aneurysm. Woke up one morning with a headache. Walked to work and collapsed on the way. He died before they got him to the hospital.” Dean bites his tongue out of habit to stop the sob that usually follows when he thinks about it. “He was so _fit_. Heathy. Active. I still don’t really understand how... They tell me it can happen to anyone but it just doesn’t seem right. Lee never had headaches. I should have made him go to the doctor, at least. Driven him.”

Aidan’s face falls.

“God. I’m really sorry. That’s awful. ‘s not your fault, you know that, don’t you? Things like that... they’re out of our control. Nobody sees something like that coming. I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have talked him into going to the doctor just for a headache.”

“Oh, I know,” Dean says dejectedly. “Deep down, anyway. But I can’t help but feel guilty sometimes. It’s been... it’s been rough. I just... miss him. I do know he isn’t coming back. Only that people keep telling me it’s been six months now and that I need to -”

“Screw them. I’m sure they’re doing their best for you, but they don’t like that they can’t fix it for you and people are uncomfortable with what they don’t understand. They get pissed when you don’t conform to their timetable.” Aidan’s voice is calm and quiet. “They can cut your leg off and you’d learn to walk again, right; but you’d always be a one legged-man. You can’t make Lee’s existence disappear. They can’t make you do something you’re not ready for, Dean. And so what? You’ll find your way.”

Dean looks at him in surprise. Who _is_ this guy? Lifesaver, builder, shrink. “Sounds like you’ve had some experience with this?”

“It’s not that,” Aidan glances down at his knees. “I just think that... you can’t let people dictate stuff like that to you. It’s _your_ grief, do it your way. If you’re trying to make other people happy before you’ve made yourself happy then you’ll just end up hurting yourself even worse. The thing is, Dean,” he flicks some crumbs off his jeans, “What you did today – not the lake bit, but before; I think that’s alright, you know? It’s alright to break a bit. As long as it’s not all the time. Let it out. Don’t be afraid if other people don’t want to see it. That’s their problem, not yours. But don’t hang on to it all for too long or it’ll turn into something else. There’s nothing beautiful about it. You have to let yourself...”, he fumbles for the words, “You can’t protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness too. Maybe all this grief has been holding you stuck in place and now it’s time to get... unstuck?”

Dean smiles wryly at his ineloquent finish. He nods slowly, watching the flames flicker in the stove.

“You’re right. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve got so used to feeling this way that I actually like it, in a weird way. It's become... easier to stay like this than it is to confront it and change the way things are. I do want... I do want to move on. I hate that phrase, ‘move on’. I’m not going anywhere. He’s the one that’s gone. It’s always harder to be the one left behind. But I think... I think I want to just learn to live alongside it. I don’t want to ‘move on’, but I just want to be capable of moving at all. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Aidan says. “Yeah, it does.”

 

* * *

 

Dean shuffles himself round in the seat, keen to change the subject.

“So what about you? Where ‘you from?” he asks. “You’re Irish, right?”

“Right.”

“Dublin?” Dean asks hopefully, but Aidan just smiles as he shakes his head.

“Nah. You know. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Just a small town boy.”

“ _Livin’ in a lonely world_...” Dean croons, and they laugh.

“That’s small town girl, buddy; but yeah, pretty much. It wasn’t exactly bright lights, big city. I dunno, maybe two hundred people? Just a village on the coast, really.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. It’s certainly no Auckland. Even the town he lives in here has got to have more than fifteen thousand people in it, and Dean doesn’t really consider it to be much more than a sort of in-between fuel stop; not quite close enough to the city be a suburb, not quite remote enough to be a mountain destination in its own right.

“So how did you end up here?” he asks.

Aidan chews thoughtfully as he looks at him, as if to weigh him up. Dean can’t tell if it’s just the flickering from the stove but for a second it looks like his lip wobbles. In the end he just swallows and says, “Well. I had quite a stressful job. Started getting a bit much so I thought maybe it would be good to get away for a bit. Pin on a map sorted the rest for me.”

Dean snorts.

“Sucks to be you. I’d have pinned again. Double or quits.”

Aidan chuckles lightly and stands up to take the bowls to the sink.

“It suits me just fine.”

 

* * *

 

Dean is almost asleep by the fire when he feels a hand fall lightly on his shoulder.

“We should get you to bed. By rights you should be in hospital. I know you’re feeling fine now but you never know with drowning. Things can change hours after it happens.”

Dean gulps, feeling a knot of worry form in his stomach.

“But don’t worry,” Aidan says reassuringly, sensing his panic. “I think given the way you’ve recovered so far you’re going to be just fine. I’ll be checking through the night. I know there’s not much more I can do for you here but I will carry you out of here if I think I need to.”

Dean gives a small embarrassed smile.

“Thanks. Are you sure? I mean, I’m stealing your bed.”

Aidan waves his hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come on.” Dean stands up to see that Aidan has hauled all the bedding down from the platform above to form a kind of nest for him. He lowers himself carefully into the unfamiliar covers that smell of violet smoke, sawn wood and a faint tang of diesel oil.

 

Just before he falls asleep Dean realises that ironically this has been the most normal evening he’s had since the last one he spent with Lee.

 

* * *

 

Dean cracks his eyes open and takes in the strange bed. For a minute he can’t work out where hell he is. Then he remembers – the cabin, the lake. Ice water, clawing for air. It’s clearly still the middle of the night, judging by the darkness hanging over the house; but he’s desperate for a pee and he really doesn’t think it would be good form to make any more of a mess. He shuffles himself up to sitting and gropes for the hoodie he threw off before sliding into bed. He plants his feet on the floor but winces when he puts weight on his ankle. Aidan must have really twisted it when he yanked it out of the boot. He carefully limps past Aidan who is sprawled in the armchair by the dying stove, dark lashes resting on pale cheeks. He turns the handle of the door as quietly as he can but the rush of cool air from outside makes Aidan jump.

“Hey,” he stands up hurriedly. “Where ‘you going? You ok?”

“Shit, sorry. I just, ahh... I need to pee,” Dean admits awkwardly. 

“Oh. God.” Aidan relaxes. “I thought for a second you were going to... The lake, you know.”

“Christ, no. I think I’m done with swimming for now.” Dean smiles sheepishly and ducks out to relieve himself. He comes back in to find Aidan stoking the fire back up.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I wasn’t asleep actually. I’ve been... checking on you pretty often,” he says shyly, and once again Dean feels a pang of guilt. His eyes look red, but if he’s been awake all night looking out for Dean then it’s hardly a surprise.

“How are you feeling?” Aidan asks.

“Better,” Dean says, truthfully. His head is clearer for having slept a good amount already, and though his chest hurts the numb ache inside has subsided some.

“My ankle’s pretty sore though. You must have really twisted it.”

Aidan shrugs and fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt. “Sorry mate. I didn’t exactly have time for delicacy.”

“Oh no, no, no; I didn’t mean it like that. I just... I didn’t notice it before, that’s all. I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

‘ _Fucks SAKE,_ thinks Dean. _Way to come across as an ungrateful little shit._

 

They stand in uncomfortable silence for a second, then Dean points to the bed and says, “I should probably...” at the exact same time that Aidan chimes in, “You ought to...”

They huff a laugh and Dean eases himself back under the covers, listening to the ticking of the stove as it heats up again in the inky dark. His head spins as he thinks about everything that’s happened in the last few hours. His agony on the dock has almost been forgotten since Aidan breathed him back to life. Sure, he _did_ almost die this afternoon, but he’s surprised and a bit unsettled to find that for hours he hasn’t felt anywhere near so sad as he had been before he’d left the house that morning. He hates to admit it but more than anything, it’s been a relief.

“Aidan.” He tastes the name on his tongue. “Thank you.”


	7. Nepenthe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nepenthe (n.) Something that can make you forget grief or suffering

Morning finds Dean alone. A rhythmic cracking noise from outside informs him that Aidan is chopping wood somewhere behind the cabin, though he can’t help but wish he’d stop because every swing of the axe seems to land with a thud in Dean’s already aching head. He nudges the door open with his foot and wanders out to find him.

Aidan is furiously splitting logs. Dean can’t help but think he looks a little worse off for his night in the armchair. His hair forms a wild nest around his head. His eyes are red and Dean is alarmed to see they’re streaming.

“Just hay fever. Pain in the ass,” he sniffs as he catches sight of Dean’s concerned expression. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and goes to grab his discarded beanie, tugging it roughly over his mad hair. Dean looks around at the trees, wondering what sets him off and thinking it’s maybe just a little bit foolish to spend all your time in the woods if it makes you feel so ill.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

Dean shakes his head and fibs, “No, not at all. What time is it anyway?”

Dean’s watch has stopped, a birthday gift from Lee. Obviously it hadn’t appreciated being taken for a swim.

“Ach, early still. Seven or so. I was just going to finish up with this... there’s coffee, actually. Here.”

Aidan reaches for a thermos flask that he’s precariously balanced on the log pile and pours Dean a tin mug of coffee. Dean wonders how he missed the noise of the kettle whistling.

“It’s black, I’m afraid.” Aidan mutters apologetically. “I can keep milk in the stream, it’s cold enough... It’s just that I don’t take it and I wasn’t expecting company...” he trails off.

Dean reassures him that it’s perfect just as it is.

“Oh Christ, I forgot... your shoes.”

Aidan points to Dean’s bare feet. Dean had gone to slip his boots on out of habit as he dressed, but only then remembered the other half of the pair was ten feet underwater.

“No worries. I don’t think it’d fit, anyway.”

He bunches up his trouser leg to show Aidan his purple ankle.

Aidan frowns.

“That’s gonna make getting you out of here a bit more interesting.”

Dean assures him that he’ll manage, if they take it slowly. Aidan looks like he wants to carry him but there’s no way Dean could face the mortification of it. In the end, Aidan offers to strap his ankle up.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a sprain,” Aidan says as he packs the axe away. “Either way, I’m sorry, you know?”

Dean isn’t. Better a sprained ankle than an underwater burial.

 

* * *

 

Aidan heaves his bag onto his shoulder, followed by Dean’s onto the other. He secures the cabin door with a padlock, but to Dean’s surprise he slips the key under a loose board in the decking. To satisfy Dean’s intrigue he explains, “The number of times I’ve got all the way out here and forgotten the bastarding key... I’ve broken the door down twice already. This seemed easier. You ready?”

Dean chews his lip and nods. He hobbles forward, feet encased in Aidan’s boots - Aidan’s own feet shoved into near-ruined Converse with no laces. The boots are too big by far, but between the strapping on his ankle and the three pairs of socks they’ve padded Dean’s feet with, they almost fit. He’s still wearing the borrowed clothes, his own being too damp to be anything close to comfortable.

His unsuitable footwear is, however, the least of his problems. It takes them a long time. A long, long time. Dean’s chest feels crackly and burns like it’s full of molten lead, sloshing from his stomach to his sternum and back again. He needs to stop far too often, but Aidan is patient and spends most of the journey with his arm looped under Dean’s shoulders which is no easy task with the bags on his back. Dean is only glad that despite the forest roaring into life with the creeping warmth of spring that the morning air is still cool, because he is already sweating like madman just with the exertion of putting one foot in front of the other.

 

They finally reach Dean’s car and he almost laughs with relief. Aidan holds out his hand expectantly. Dean isn’t sure what he is getting at, but then -

“You want my keys?”

“You’re intending to drive in that state?”

“You’re intending to come with me?”

Aidan shrugs. Dean has to admit he has a point. He sighs and tosses the keys over to Aidan. He looks around as a thought occurs to him.

“How did you get out here, anyway? Don’t tell me you walked from town? You can drive, can’t you?”

“As it happens, I did. I don’t usually walk,” he adds, seeing Dean’s expression. “I’ve a pickup but it’s in the garage at the moment. It’s not really so far, is it?”

 

* * *

  

They pass the journey in near silence, Dean fiddling with the radio and watching the pressing wildness of the woods fade as they near the town. Aidan stares at the tarmac intently, gripping the wheel just a little tighter than Dean thinks is necessary.

Aidan pulls into the hospital car park.

“I’ll just... I’ll just come in and make sure that you get seen to, yeah?”

Dean nods eagerly and suddenly realises he is almost sorry to part Aidan’s company. He’s not quite sure how it has taken almost drowning for him to see it, but maybe there is a flicker of hope at the end of his tunnel. Aidan has made him think about things in a different way, and selfishly he’d like him to stick around so he can open up to him a bit more.

 

They enter the busy emergency department, and almost as soon as they’ve told the receptionist what happened Dean is ushered away for treatment, leaving Aidan fielding questions from a brisk, clipboard-wielding doctor as best he can.

It’s quite some time before the doctors are satisfied that Dean is healthy enough to leave. He’s been hooked up to monitors and poked and prodded, and reminded more than a couple of times how lucky he was rescued just in time. Eventually, Dean manages to ask a ward assistant if she’d be able to get hold of Aidan in the waiting room for him.

“Sorry sweetheart, there’s no-one of that description out there.”

“Are you sure? Tall-ish, dark; grey woolly hat?”

She shakes her head apologetically, assuring him she’d have seen him if he was there.

“But the reception desk say these were left for you.”

She hands Dean his car keys.

He thanks her and is left alone, wondering why it is that he feels so deflated that Aidan has walked out of his life as quickly as he dived into it.

 

* * *

 

Dean calls Richard, of course; and he arrives in a state of total panic. It takes Dean hours to convince him he’s fine, though Dean has skipped over more than a few details of the story.

“I fell in,” he tells him; and as for fulfilling his desperate request to know more about the man who saved him he just shrugs and says, “He didn’t say much. I don’t even know his name.”

Dean has no idea why he feels so compelled to lie about it, to Richard, of all people. It seems to him that whatever passed between himself and this strange guy in the woods is between them alone, and he doesn’t want to burst his fragile bubble of hope by sharing it with sensible, over-analytical Richard.

Richard insists on ordering him to bed once he’s home, though; and bringing him anything he could think he might need; which Dean doesn’t argue with. The pain in his chest is still there - the doctors had told him it would be for days yet, and he’s tired from the agonising walk through the forest. He sinks heavily into his familiar covers and rolls himself up tightly in them. For a long while he stares at the ceiling, afraid to fall asleep. He’s afraid of having nightmares about Lee, or empty lungs and fingers clawing helplessly at dark water; but when he does all he dreams about is the scent of violet smoke and sawn wood and the faint tang of diesel oil.

 

* * *

 

The pile of freshly laundered and neatly folded clothes sits on the chair in the corner of his room like a silent challenge. It’s been two weeks now since his trip to the woods, since his night in the cabin. His ankle has been better for days, and somehow he’s miraculously managed to escape any lingering effects of having nearly drowned. He’s been trying to keep busy, even managed to get out a few backorders in the workshop, but no matter what he tries he cannot shake the nagging thought that he’d like to see Aidan again. Just to say thank you properly, of course; seeing as he left him at the hospital without so much as a goodbye. He still has Aidan’s clothes and boots, he tells himself; and it only seems fair that he should return them. And anyway, Richard had asked him to do a job which he really ought to finish. He’d hate to let Richard down, after everything he’s done for him.

His jacket peeks out from the half-closed door of the wardrobe.

_Can’t hurt, can it?_

He allows himself to smile a little as he heads to the dresser to dig out some hiking gear.

 

* * *

 

Spring has gripped the forest hard since Dean’s last visit, and acid-green tendrils snake across the path and threaten to tangle his feet. The air feels like it’s buzzing around his head, thick with warmth and invisible insects. The walk to the lake feels easier but longer, and he’s glad to reach the top of the hill and be greeted by the wide expanse of water again. He’d been unsure, walking out here, how he’d feel - if it would trigger some sort of panic in him on seeing the lake in which he’d nearly died; but he feels nothing except the welcome breeze and the gentle tug toward the wilderness that he always feels when he gets close to the mountains. His heart quickens when he rounds the bend and sees the cabin opposite him.

 

He takes the stairs up to the door two at a time, but when he reaches it he sees that it’s firmly closed and there are no signs of anyone inside. His first thought is that Aidan isn’t here, but sharp cracks like gunshots reverberate along the gully of the rocky stream behind the cabin, and Dean follows the noise upwards until he catches sight of the Irishman high on the hill ahead of him. Aidan wears forest-stained ripped jeans and a film of sweat. Dean watches him raise a heavy-looking axe over his head and bring it down with a _whop_ , splitting a thick log clean in half. Aidan puffs hard and moves to swing the axe again.

“Aidan!” Dean calls, and his voice echoes up the valley toward the man. He straightens and looks around for the source for the sound.

“Over here!”

Aidan squints across the distance that separates them, shielding his eyes from the glancing sun with his arm.

“Dean?” he calls tentatively. 

Dean raises his hand in a wave and walks up the slope towards him.

“Christ! What are you doing here? How have you been?”

Aidan throws down his axe and tugs his hands through his damp and dishevelled hair.

“I’m good, good.” Dean smiles as he reaches the clearing. “I just... Well, I wanted to say thank you again, for last week. And I wasn’t sure where else to find you? And,” he reaches into his pack, “I thought I ought to bring these back.” He holds the bundle of laundered clothes out to Aidan who takes them with a smile.

“Oh! I told you, it was fine to keep them. But thanks. And hey, you're welcome. I'm glad to see you're feeling better.”

Dean shifts his weight, feet fidgeting in his boots.

“Well it’s not like they fit me anyway,” he mutters shyly. “But yeah, I'm fine now, thanks to you. Also, I sort of had a favour to ask. Last time I was here... I was supposed to be taking some photos. Of the lake, and of the cabin. Only seeing as I’ve met the owner now,” he grins, “it only seems fair to ask permission. Would it be alright if I took the shots today instead? Only my friend’s deadline is coming up, and – ”

“Sure!” Aidan beams and his whole face lights up, his eyes crinkled almost closed, before his expression turns curious. “You really walked all the way out here to say thanks, huh?”

Dean can’t help but grin back as he shrugs, and he hopes to god that his dimples aren’t showing.

“So,” he looks around. “What are you doing way up here?”

“This was the chopper pad last year,” Aidan gestures to the space full of low-grown foliage, “But I haven’t been out here for a while and it needs clearing before it can be used again. Last weekend was the first time I’d been here in months, actually. I almost didn’t come...”

 _Lucky for me that he did_ , thinks Dean.

“Chainsaw has run out of fuel so I’m having to go old-fashioned. Wanna help?” Aidan points towards a second, smaller axe leaning against a stump.

“Sure.” Dean throws down his pack and takes up the tool. It’s the least he can do, really.

 

* * *

 

He can’t help but think that this is a very different Aidan to the one he met last time. Back then he had been quiet; apologetic and fidgety and almost nervous. Now Dean is pretty sure he couldn’t shut him up if he wanted to. He’s incredibly eloquent, though Dean doesn’t know exactly why he’s surprised by this. Aidan tells him stories of teenage road trips and of how he built the cabin. At one point Dean asks him about his family but must have not heard him because he just looks up at Dean, wiping his hands on his jeans, and asks, “Lunch?”.

 

Dean nods eagerly. Aidan chucks down his axe and grabs up his water bottle, drinking deeply.

“Alright. C’mon then.”

They stroll amiably back down toward the cabin. The steep slope of the forest here is thick with ferns and the dense canopy overhead forms a seal of leaves, turning the heavy air dusty green. Dean hops from moss-covered boulder to moss-covered boulder.

“Careful. We wouldn’t want you to fall over,” Aidan warns. “They’re pretty slippery.”

“Nah, y’alright. I’ve got it,” Dean replies, as he lands heavily on a rock and almost immediately loses his footing. His legs shoot out in front of him and he crashes down the rough rocky embankment to his left, rolling into a hollow just out of Aidan’s sight.

“Dean!”

Aidan scrambles down the gully, branches whipping at his face. He slips and ends up sliding the last few metres on his back, coming to a stop just next to Dean.

“Careful. We wouldn’t want you to fall over,” Dean taunts.

“Funny,” Aidan rolls his eyes. “Speak for yourself. Ouch.” He lies on his back catching his breath, but he makes a face when he turns to face Dean.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” Dean raises his hand to where he hit his head, and when he pulls it away he sees it’s smeared red.

“Yeah,” Aidan says, frowning now. He scrabbles up to sitting and peers more closely at the wound. “You’re really bleeding, actually. Shit. Sit up.”

Dean sits up and blood dribbles over his eye. Aidan is frantically looking around for something he can use to staunch the flow. He pats all his pockets, finding nothing. Eventually grabs hold of the bottom of his t-shirt, yanks hard and tears off a ragged strip; pressing it hard against Dean’s head.

“Sit still. We’ll just keep this on for a bit, yeah? You’re not feeling dizzy or anything, are you?”

“Honestly, I’m fine. Just fucking embarrassed.

Aidan chuckles.

“You’ve not much luck, have you? I'm sure you'll be fine. Heads always bleed a lot, it probably looks worse than it really is. Is maiming yourself one of your hobbies, or do you just save all your medical emergencies up for when I’m around?”

Dean laughs and picks twigs out of his hair.

“Ahh no,” he moans, “My camera.”

Dean holds up the mud-caked camera dangling from his neck, silently berating himself for not having put it back safely in it's bag - or more stupidly, and incredibly out of character for him, not having replaced the lens cap.

The glass is cracked. He can’t see that the camera itself is broken, but he isn’t going to be able to finish taking Richard’s photos before he’s cleaned it. He mentally kicks himself for not bringing a spare.

 

* * *

  

They sit for a while, no sound but the flow of the nearby stream and the rowdy wildlife of the forest.

“I burnt his pictures.”

“Hmm?” Aidan looks up. “Who’s? Lee’s?”

“Yeah. I got all the pictures I took of him and set fire to them in the garden like some... teenage girl.”

“But you’ve got like, digital copies, right? I mean, if you still want them?”

“Nope. I prefer to shoot portraits in film. Didn’t keep the negatives.” Dean looks down, throwing shreds of ripped up fern frond onto the forest floor.

Aidan looks up at the trees.

“Well that was fucking stupid, wasn’t it?”

It’s a rhetorical question.

 

* * *

 

Aidan gently lifts the t-shirt off Dean’s forehead and winces.

“That’s going to need stitching. Come on. I think I’ve got the right stuff inside.”

“Well you’re handy to have around, aren’t you?” Dean remarks.

“I like to think so.”

Aidan hauls himself up and brushes the earth off his clothes. He helps Dean up and they head inside, where Aidan drags a large orange plastic box out from underneath the counter. Dean cranes his neck.

“Is that... Is that your first aid kit? Isn’t that a bit overkill?”

Aidan takes out a small bag from the box and holds it up for Dean to see.

“You do realise we are in the middle of nowhere, right? And you seem intent on self-destruction. Bingo.”

“How come you’ve got a suture kit? Wait, wait, wait; you _do_ know what you’re doing, right?”

“In case any idiot decides to come out here and put a hole in his head,” he says, washing his hands at the small sink. “Hang on.”

He bends to rummage in a low drawer, retrieving a pair of black framed glasses and sliding them on.

 

“Right,” he says dragging the packing case over, placing it next it Dean’s chair and straddling it. “I’m just going to clean this up and then I’ll stick you with needles.” He grins and snaps a pair of medical gloves onto his hands with a comical _slap._

“Pink? Really?” Dean snorts.

“Ha. Latex allergy,” he says, wriggling his colourful fingers at Dean. “This is all they had in town that I can wear.”

He leans in, removing the reddened t-shirt rag; and works gently on the wound. There’s only a few inches between them. Dean is close enough to see his own reflection in the metallic _Rayban_ logo on the stem of the glasses, and he can’t help glancing through the lenses at the other man. He’s gone all quiet and serious and Dean can see tiny flecks of green in his eyes.

 

“Ready?” Aidan asks he takes the needle out of its wrapper. “This might hurt a little bit.” Dean pouts and he laughs. “Cowboy up, eh? You brought it on yourself!”

Dean flinches as he starts the stitches.

“Sorry. Try to sit still,” he murmurs without looking at Dean, deep in concentration. Dean’s trying, but the sight of Aidan in those glasses is something else and he only hopes he isn’t going to take his pulse this time.

 

* * *

 

Eventually Aidan sits back to admire his handiwork.

“It’s alive, it’s alive!” he laughs. “I’m no plastic surgeon, but you’re back in one piece.”

Dean raises his hand to feel but Aidan bats it away.

“Don’t fiddle with it. Don’t get it wet either for a few days, if you can help it. No throwing yourself in the lake,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “You’ll have to get them removed in a week or so but you can sort all that out back in town.”

Dean gets up and goes to check out the damage in the small mirror in the kitchen.

“Jeez,” he calls, “That’s _neat_.”

Aidan smiles as he clears away the kit and dumps the bloodied strip of the t-shirt in the bin.

“I aim to please.”

“Where d’you learn to do that?”

Aidan shrugs nonchalantly.

“Told you, just had some training, that’s all. Now. How about that sandwich?”


	8. Accismus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accismus (n.) Feigning disinterest in something while actually desiring it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, we are getting there. I did say slow burn! 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for reading, and as always for your kudos and beautiful comments.

Dean sits at the small table by the window as lazy raindrops snake their way down the glass. The weather had changed fast. Iron grey clouds fell down from the ridge as they ate, and have pressed so low over the lake that Dean thinks it looks like it’s steaming. He meticulously takes his camera apart, brushing the dirt out of each piece. The door bursts open and Aidan nearly falls into the room, shaking water off like a wet dog after having been to rescue all the equipment he’d left up the hill before lunch.

 “Christ. Somebody pulled a zipper out there,” he grunts as he wriggles out of his jacket. Dean looks out at the uninviting gloom and frowns. He’s really not looking forward to the long walk back to his car in this. He’s got a waterproof, but he stupidly hadn’t checked the forecast before he left and he knows his jeans are going to be like cardboard by the time he gets there. 

Aidan removes the denim shirt that he’d replaced his ripped t-shirt with too, after discovering that the entire front of it has become soaked through even under his coat; though Dean notices he’s making no move to put anything else on, given that he’s now fiddling around with the gas cooker with coffee on his mind. Not that Dean minds in particular, as he watches the sweep of muscles in Aidan’s back ripple as he reaches down to retrieve something from the floor. He realises he is staring, so he blinks hard and looks back down at the half-assembled camera in front of him.

“Aren’t you cold?” he murmurs.

“Hmm? Oh. ‘Spose.” Aidan hoists himself up to the bedroom above and Dean hears him flinging things around. He pops his head over the railings. “Catch!” he calls, and Dean narrowly avoids a large bag of cookies landing on his head.

“What are these for?”

“Eating?” Aidan draws the word out, like Dean might not quite understand it.

He rolls his eyes. _Cheeky fucker_.

“Yes, thanks. I mean, haven’t you just had lunch?”

“So?” Aidan reaches for the bag as he hops off the bottom of the ladder, clad in a dark green sweater that makes his eyes look like lake water. “I’m kind of running out of clothes now, by the way; so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t have me ruin any more of them.” He grins through a mouthful of biscuit and falls into the armchair, resting his feet on the cold stove.

“So... What do you _do_ out here when it’s like this?” Dean jerks his thumb towards the window, trying to take his mind off Aidan having nothing to wear. 

Aidan raises his eyebrows mischievously.

“That’s a very personal question, no?”.

Dean feels himself blush, but Aidan just throws back his head and laughs.

“I dunno. Read. Listen to music. There’s usually something that needs fixing. And I paint...” he starts, but he looks embarrassed and doesn’t finish.

“Really?” Dean’s interest is piqued. “I didn’t have you down as an artist. What do you paint?”

“Ahh. Bit of this and that. It’s all rubbish, really. But you know. Keeps me out of trouble.” He smiles again and Dean can’t help but think he’d love to see some of his work.

 

* * *

  

He hears a _thunk_ and looks up from the camera parts to see that Aidan has speared the apple that was sitting in front of Dean with a knife like some kind of lollypop, and he’s chewing huge chunks out of it.

“Oi!” Dean squeaks. “Do you ever stop eating?”

“Hungry. Clearly some of us have been working harder than others,” Aidan smirks. He takes another bite and turns to the large pile of planks metal tubing stacked in the corner. Dean watches him pout at them for a few minutes, before chiming in, “Penny for them?”

“Oh. Just. I need to build some furniture, really. The cabin’s sort of done now, but it’s not like there’s much in here.” Aidan waves his arm around the sparse space to prove a point. “Everything is just temporary, but now that I’ve got to it I don’t really know where to start.”

Dean clears his throat.

“I, ahh... I may be able to help you there.”

 

Aidan gives Dean a look that suggests he isn’t entirely sure how useful he has been so far, but Dean continues, “I make furniture. I have a business, clients. My own studio. That’s my job.”

Aidan knits his eyebrows together.

“I thought you were a photographer?”

Dean wanders over to join him now, bending down to take a closer look at the assorted wood.

“Well yeah, that’s more of a hobby though, you know. I like both; but you can be an amateur photographer, not so much an amateur woodworker. I did a degree in furniture design, the rest is history.”

Aidan looks suitably impressed.

“I can definitely sort you out. You’ve some nice timber here. I mean,” he blushes a little at his own self-confidence, “It might not be your kind of thing, and only if you want me to, obviously. It’s really the least I can do, in return for...” he waves lamely to his mangled forehead. “Everything.”

“Are you kidding?” Aidan’s lit up like someone has switched on a lightbulb. “That would be amazing!”

Dean beams. He wanders over to his bag to grab his phone.

“Sweet as. If you like, give me your number and I can send you over some photos of pieces I’ve made later tonight and you can pick out some things you like when you get back.”

Aidan looks up in surprise

“Aren’t you staying?”

 _Yes,_ Dean thinks.

“Nah,” he says. “Couldn’t bear to deprive you of your bed twice in a row.”

“Suit yourself,” Aidan shrugs. “I’d have made you take the chair anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Dean pulls the jacket on and zips it up as far as it will go. It’s a little big, but his coats are all canvas and this was the only waterproof he could find.

“What happened, did you shrink in the wash?” Aidan taunts lightly.

Dean tuts.

“Very funny. No.” He chews his lip a little. “This was Lee’s, actually.”

Aidan’s laugh fades.

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

Dean shakes his head, and gives a reassuring smile.

“It’s fine. How were you supposed to know? And anyway,” he adds, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to apologise. Like you said. I can’t erase his existence. We did... we did have a life together, but he isn’t here anymore. I don’t want people to feel like they’re putting their foot in it for the rest of my life every time he gets mentioned.”

 

“What’s it like?” Aidan asks quietly. “Having all his stuff around you? Does it help, or hurt?”

“Well. I don’t, really. His parents took a lot. I couldn’t... I didn’t want much.”

“But I mean, you still live in the same house, right? That’s got to be... odd?”

“Not really. I mean we didn’t actually live together.” Dean frowns. It had always been a bone of contention between them. The main source of their arguments. Dean had wanted to move in with Lee, but he’d always held out. He wanted to build them their own place, he’d said; design something really special. Dean didn’t see why they couldn’t just move in together in the meantime, but it was a closed subject, apparently.

_It’ll be worth the wait, babe; he always told him._

“I live with Richard in his house. We’ve known each other forever. It was through him that I met Lee, actually.... they worked together at the same firm. Lee lived in town, but he spent most of his time round at ours anyway.”

Aidan looks a little surprised.

“Oh. I just assumed...”

Dean shrugs.

“Well we were going to. Planning to. Just not yet.” He explains about Lee wanting to have something of their own. “So really there wasn’t so much of his stuff to have to contend with. I couldn’t face his flat. His parents cleared that out.”

Aidan nods.

“So just the waterproof, huh?”

Dean huffs a laugh.

“Yeah. Pretty much.” He swings his bag up on to his shoulder. “Hey. Umm, thanks. Again. For,” he points to his forehead. “And... talking. It’s been good.”

“No worries. It was good to see you. Look after yourself, Deano. Try not to incapacitate yourself on the way home, yeah? I’m not coming after you.” He smiles.

“I’ll text you.” Dean heads out into the drizzle and yanks up his hood. “About the furniture. Seeya, Aidan.”

Aidan raises his hand in a wave, but when Dean reaches the bottom of the path and turns back to the cabin, he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

“We’re going out.”

Luke plonks himself excitedly the crowded workbench, sending a flurry of meticulous paperwork to the floor. Adam is fussing around the room, looking for something to use as a bottle opener. Dean crinkles his eyes in displeasure as he gropes for his plans on the floor, and groans, “Ohhh, no. I’m not. I’m... tired. You go, though,”

“Dean O’Gorman, I don’t believe he _asked_ you if you wanted to go. He told you.” Adam looks over. “You’re coming with us. I happen to know that you have absolutely no good excuses.”

“But it’s Wednesday! It’s not the weekend. Who even goes out midweek?”

“Students!” crows Luke eagerly. “Two for one drinks... Come _onnnn_ Dean. It’s been ages.”

 

And Dean has to admit, it has been ages. It’s not like he hasn’t been anywhere since Lee died, but each time it felt so forced. He’d sit while the others had fun and count down the minutes until he could leave at an acceptable time. But tonight... maybe just a small part of him thinks it might be fun.

“Where?”

“Quba,” Adam announces, cracking open his beer on one of Dean’s layout squares.

Dean wrinkles his nose as he yanks the tool out of Adam’s hand before he damages something. _It’s like bloody babysitting_.

“Not the place with the wanky cocktails?”

“But you LOVE wanky cocktails!” Luke remarks.

Dean feigns annoyance.

“Ugh, fine. Fine! But you’re both buying my drinks all night.”

Luke holds up both his hands in gleeful acceptance.

“Whatever you say.”

“And I’m only going if that black shirt of mine is dry. And I need a shower first. And I’m getting my hair cut before we go. I look a bloody mess.”

 

* * *

 

The bar is crammed with hordes of braying students, but the boys push their way in and Luke loads them up with an armful of drinks. There’s a crowd of people around their age spilling onto the dancefloor near the back, and he finds his eyes running up the back of a striking man in animated conversation with a couple of girls at the bar. Black skinny jeans. Blue shirt clinging to broad shoulders. Black leather boots. Dark hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head, tiny curls escaping around the base of his neck. _Oh hell_. A tiny pool of heat forms in the pit of his stomach, something that he hasn’t felt for a long time.

He can’t see his face but he hears a laugh he recognises.

 

“Aidan?”

 

The man looks over his shoulder and his eyebrows shoot up when he sees Dean standing in front of him.

“Hey! Deano! What are you doing here?”

 _Fucking hell_. He looks _good_. His face is glowing with drink and good spirits.

“I could ask you the same question. I’m just here with -” Dean gestures behind him, “- some mates. I didn’t think this was your kind of place. You look... different.” He feels colour rising in his face and he quickly raises his beer to his lips to hide his reddening cheeks.

“Can’t be a lumberjack every day. You look different too. I like the ‘do.”

Dean’s hand finds his newly-cropped short hair and he makes a noise of thanks. There’s a moment of awkward silence before Aidan tugs his ear and says, “We’re just out celebrating my birthday, as it happens.”

Dean’s eyes widen.

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday! Shit, I’m sorry, I’d have -”

“Not ‘til next Tuesday, actually. Anyway. We come here sometimes at the weekend, when I’m not out at the cabin. Only half of this lot are away next week so we’re here a bit prematurely.”

 

Dean seizes the opportunity to do a little prying. He gestures towards the girls, who have joined the pack of dancing bodies.

“So which one is your girlfriend?”

Aidan gives a sly smile.

“Ahh yeah, she wanted to be here, but she’s–”

“ - non-existent?” A petite, pretty girl pops up next to Aidan, ducking under his arm to hold out her hand to Dean. “I’m Eva.”

“I’ve only got you to blame. You put me off right off dating,” Aidan snorts.

Dean looks between them as he shakes Eva’s hand.

“You two dated?”

Eva tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and smiles.

“Only a couple of times. I was far too much for him to handle.” She turns to Dean, smiling wickedly. “It’s nice to meet you Dean, despite your poor choice in friends.”

 _Are he and Aidan friends_? Dean supposes they might be by now.

“Yeah, right,” Aidan chuckles and slings his arm conspiratorially around Dean’s shoulders. “She farts in bed,” he mock-whispers as he winks at Eva and steers Dean away.

Eva shrieks and gives Aidan a playful smack, calling after him.

“I won’t disgust everyone with your bedroom habits, Turner!”

_Turner. His surname is Turner._

As if he can sense Dean’s curiosity about Eva, Aidan explains, “I met her when I first arrived in town. We went out a couple of times but it wasn’t...” He chews his lip. “She’s a lot of fun but it turns out I wasn’t ready for a relationship.”

 

Aidan introduces him to a crowd of people. Dean is properly enjoying himself. The music is good, and true to Luke’s word he hasn’t had to buy a single drink so far. He looks around for Adam and Luke, thinking he should return the favour of introductions; grabbing a handful Adam’s shirt and pulling him in.

“This is my mate Adam.”

“Good to meet you.” Aidan shakes his hand. Adam lets out an audible squeak at the sight of Aidan and Dean digs into his ribs to shut him up.

“And this,” Dean says, as he turns to find Luke, “is -”

But Luke slaps Aidan on the shoulder and grins, “Aidan, right? The pilot? You fly stuff round the property for my dad sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah! That’s right. Luke, isn’t it?” And with that, Aidan and Luke break away, chatting cheerfully.

Dean is left speechless _. Aidan’s a pilot?_ Why hadn’t he mentioned it before?

He’s annoyed with himself that he feels a slight pang of jealousy that Aidan is now occupied by Luke. He makes his way back toward the bar, ordering a beer and a couple of shots. _What the hell_. Might as well make the most of it now that he’s here.

 

* * *

 

Dean feels a weight slump back against the wall next to him. He’s crept out for some cool air, a few minutes of quiet. He opens his eyes and sees Aidan bring a lighter to the cigarette clamped between his lips.

Dean smiles at the other man’s unexpected presence.

“Swingin’ party.”

“Cheers.” Aidan says through his teeth.

“You never told me you were a pilot.”

Aidan’s brow creases slightly as he takes a long drag.

“I told you about taking all the stuff out to the cabin with a chopper, didn’t I?”

“Well, yeah but I thought you meant someone _else_ was flying.”

“Does it matter?”

Dean watches the shape his mouth makes when he eases out a smoke ring.

“No," he admits, "I suppose it doesn’t.”

“It’s not a sexy as it sounds. I got my commercial pilot’s license a while back and from there learned to fly a chopper. Comes in handy now and again. I do a couple of jobs for people with land outside the town. Tiny planes, you know? Running farm supplies around in a hired helicopter. It’s not like I’m flying jumbos.”

Seems fair enough. Dean nods, though he can't say he agrees with Aidan when he says it isn't sexy. The thought of him flying a helicopter is doing all sorts for Dean. 

 

“You having a good time?” he asks, trying to change tack and curb his rapidly spiralling imagination, 

“Hmm,” Aidan says ambiguously, breathing smoke out of his nose. “Between you and me? I’d rather have stayed home but these guys were pretty insistent. Basically carried me out of the door.”

“But it’s your birthday! You have to celebrate.”

“Not ‘til next Tuesday.” Aidan counters.

“Minor details... This way is better, then you can have two nights out!”

“Nah. Honestly mate,” he shakes his head. “I sort of hate birthdays.”

Dean’s feeling warm and buzzy from the drinks.

“What?” He laughs, his nose crinkling. “Nobody hates birthdays! Come on...”

“It’s lucky I’m nobody then, isn’t it?” Aidan flicks the stub onto the floor and grinds it out with the heel of his boot. “Well anyway, I should probably...” Aidan glances over his shoulder towards the bar. He looks back at Dean and his expression softens a little. “But ahh, listen. I’m heading out to the cabin on Friday for a few days. I know it’s a weekday and you’ve probably got other work on but if you need to take any more photos or just... Or whatever. Up to you. I’ll see you, Dean.”

And with that he heads off, leaving Dean feeling confused and slightly deflated watching him go.

Aidan Turner, he thinks, is fast becoming definitely not nobody.


	9. Alharaca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alharaca (n.) An extraordinary or violent emotional reaction to a small issue.
> 
>  
> 
> In which Richard knows Dean better than he knows himself; and Dean should know better than to go poking around in things that don't belong to him.

Despite the late night, Dean almost springs out of bed the following morning. He doesn’t even roll his eyes when Richard wordlessly swipes his feet from where he’s resting them on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, or when he starts sweeping up toast crumbs with his hands from around him.

“Good night last night?” Richard asks from where he’s finally settled behind the newspaper.

“Mmm. Was actually.”

Richard lowers the paper and looks suspiciously at Dean over the top of it.

“You’re in a good mood. No hangover? No morning dose of caustic wit for me?”

“Nope.” Dean shoves his last piece of toast in his mouth and jumps up, grabbing his camera bag from the cabinet that contains all his equipment. “Just running into town to get this lot looked over.”

“It’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Armitage; but I don’t appreciate your tone,” he mocks. “By the way. I might go up to the lake again this weekend. Finish your project for you.” He swipes a slice of bread from Richard’s plate, but before he can object he skips out of the door.

 

* * *

 

Dean turns along the criss-cross network of pedestrian streets that form the centre of the town. It’s a nice day, so he’s walked all the way in from where their house sits on the outskirts. He often wonders why Richard chose to settle here, of all places; but he supposes it’s convenient for his career and Dean knows he feels comfortable here after moving years ago from England. Dean isn’t complaining. Living on the edge of town means that Richard had snapped up a massive plot, giving him more than enough space to build one of his own designs to live in. Plus, he’s more than happy for Dean to have his workshop out the back, meaning he can work from home; which seems to Dean infinitely nicer than renting a grotty flat and a studio in the centre.

 

The streets are fairly deserted at this time, just the odd jogger and a few people heading to work. His attention is caught by a long pair of legs in dark blue jeans and a washed out leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up tanned arms, revealing a stack of hipster woven bracelets. An empty-looking well-worn leather holdall is slung over a shoulder, and the jeans sway deliciously with the relaxed swagger of their wearer.

 

Aidan bloody Turner. What are the chances of literally running into him two days in a row? Dean’s lived here for ages and he’s never seen him, not once. He’d have noticed. How is it possible that he looks so different here in town to the semi-cowboy that he is in the woods? Dean is struck with curiosity and wonders where he’s going. He follows him down the street.

 _Not actually following him,_ he justifies.

It’s not his fault that Aidan happens to be going in the same direction as him, several tens of metres in front of him. He supposes he could call out and catch him up but it’s not like he actually knows the guy that well; and anyhow, Dean finds he’s enjoying the view from back here more than he would have imagined.

 

Aidan ducks into a store but Dean can barely conceal his delight when he sees that it’s Adam’s coffee bar. Seems like a perfectly reasonable place for Dean to have been heading to. He pushes open the door and keeps himself turned away from Aidan as he calls, “The usual please, Adam,” while scurrying over to an empty table by the window. He positions himself with his back to the counter as a flat white is placed in front of him by a young ponytailed barista. In the reflection of a piece of mirrored artwork on the wall he can see Aidan standing in the queue. He watches him take his cup and turn to leave, then start as he clocks Dean sitting in the corner.

“Dean!”

Dean smirks into his cup and places it carefully back down on the table, turning his head unhurriedly and pretending to be surprised when he sees the other man standing behind him.

“Aidan! God, what a coincidence. Are you following me or something?”

“It’s starting to look a bit like it, isn’t it?" Aidan laughs. "No, no. I’m just on my way to pick up some stuff for the weekend. Need a bit of caffeine first though, after last night. Not really what you’d call a morning person.” He raises his hand to his head as he grabs a nearby seat and pulls it over. “You?”

Dean explains that Adam manages the coffee bar, and about getting his camera fixed.

“Oh right, yeah. Well like I said last night. If you need to take any more shots, you’re welcome.”

Dean tries hard to come across nonchalant.

“Ahh yeah, I’ll have to see. I’ll have a look at what I’ve managed to shoot already but I might have enough.”

Much to his annoyance, Aidan doesn’t seem in the least disappointed.

“Good for you,” he smiles. “Maybe I’ll see you around then.” He pushes his stool back as he drains his paper cup. “Later, Dean.”

 

Adam rushes over seconds after Aidan has sauntered out the door. He takes the vacated stool and raises his eyebrows expectantly at Dean.

“Well?”

Dean feigns innocence.

“Well what?” 

“Explain!”

“There’s nothing to explain, Adam.”

Adam mimics Dean in a high voice.

“Oh Aidan! Fancy seeing you here!” He rolls his eyes. “So it’s just coincidence that you keep running into a guy that just happens to look like _that_?” He jerks his thumb towards the door.

“So it would seem. What can you do, eh?” Dean shrugs but fails to keep the smile from his face.

Adam stands up and adjusts the black apron around his waist.

“Go on, get going. We need the table.” He takes Dean’s half-empty cup, ignoring Dean’s noises of protest.

“Do you fancy him?”

“What? No!” Dean squeaks incredulously.

Adam narrows his eyes disbelievingly as he turns back to the waiting customers.

“Why the hell not?”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day seems to take forever, especially as Dean spends the afternoon preparing invoices and doing his accounts. By the time Friday rolls around he’s full of nervous energy, though he can’t exactly place his finger on the reason. He wakes early – too early, and by 6.45am his bag is packed and waiting by the door. By the time Richard appears for his breakfast Dean has emptied half the contents of the kitchen cupboards.

“Why the fuck haven’t we got any fucking cocoa powder?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Riiich...” Dean begs.

Richard removes his cup from the espresso machine without looking up.

“Try the third drawer.” He settles into a chair and watches Dean with barely concealed amusement. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m bloody well doing? I’m baking.”

“Baking?”

“Yes, Richard; you know. Flour, sugar, eggs...”

Richard smiles knowingly.

“Does the object of your affection have a name?”

“Sorry?”

Richard pushes back his chair and folds his paper.

“No need to be,” he calls on his way out. “You’ve got flour in your hair, by the way.”

 

* * *

 

Dean dumps his car at the end of the road. Aidan’s pickup is nowhere to be seen but that doesn’t put him off. At the very least, he tells himself, he can finish the job for Richard; and he’s come to enjoy the walk through the woods. He feels calmer here. Like he can let the walls down. The lake is steel-blue today under the sombre sky, but that doesn’t dampen Dean’s spirit as he nears his destination.

 

He bounds up the stairs to the cabin and knocks, but as he’d half-expected, there’s no answer. He peers through the window but he can’t see any signs of life. It’s his own fault. He had, after all, told Aidan that he might not even come. He sighs and drops down onto the top step to wait for his friend, bouncing his knees up and down. Then he remembers - Aidan and his second-rate security measures. He scrabbles around until he finds the loose board and the key glitters at him. _Aidan won’t mind, right?_

 

He pushes the door open and he’s immediately hit with the scent that’s become strangely familiar to him lately. It smells like his workshop, woody and green; but with a hint of something else he can’t put his finger on. It smells comfortable. Flinging his pack and camera bag down, he slowly walks around the room, running his hand idly over the worksurface. There’s very little here, almost no personal items to speak of. It troubles him a little that he knows next to nothing about Aidan when the poor bloke has had to listen so much of Dean’s shit. His eyes run over a set of drawers beneath the counter and he absentmindedly pulls them open.

 

The first drawer contains a messy assortment of tools, tangled earphones and a tattered pack of playing cards. Dean picks up a few of the oily tools and admires that Aidan has managed to build so much, so skilfully when these are practically antiques.

 

The next drawer contains a small stack of clean underwear, a towel and a plaid shirt, along with a porn magazine. Dean smiles in amusement and slides the drawer shut. 

 

He opens the final drawer and finds a loose stack of papers. On the top sits a rough but impressive watercolour, all black and white abstract strokes but Dean can tell it’s the view outside the cabin. He picks it up carefully to examine it more closely. It is masterful in its simplicity. Seems to him that Aidan is far more talented than he’s been letting on.

He brushes the papers aside to see if there’s more. A sheaf of dog-eared photographs sits at the bottom of the drawer, and Dean automatically reaches out for them.

 

His fingers trace the well-worn prints. Aidan, somewhere warm-looking; barefoot and tanned, laughs on the foredeck of a yacht. Two dark-haired boys sit in an apple tree wearing Mickey Mouse t-shirts and gap-toothed grins. Aidan and three other men, dressed in drenched yellow waterproof gear; smile tiredly out from the open door of a helicopter. A teenage Aidan-lookalike pulls a stupid face perched on the back of a motorcycle. A fit-looking, white-haired man stands on a dock; arms thrown proudly around the shoulders of what can only be his sons. Aidan and his... brother?

 

He spots a grainy newspaper clipping at the back of the drawer, the partly-obscured headline smudged with inky fingerprints, making it unreadable past the first word. _Turner_. As he goes to reach for it he hears the thumping of boots coming up the steps outside. Dean panics and frantically shoves the pile back into the drawer, swiping the loose papers back on top of them; hoping desperately that they’re in the right order. He hastily shuts the drawer and ducks, flinging his camera bag open and grabbing a couple of lenses.

 

The door swings open and Aidan saunters in, jumping when he sees Dean crouching over his bag.

“Dean! Shit the bed, you scared me. I thought you said you weren’t coming? I saw your car but what the fuck are you doing on the floor?”

 

Dean’s heart thunders traitorously in his ribcage.

“Ahh sorry. Changed my mind,” He stands up and gives what he hopes is a convincing smile. “I just thought I’d... I’d get a head start on finally finishing those photos. Turns out I didn’t have what i was looking for,” he says, holding up the lenses to show Aidan. “Hope you don’t mind me coming on in. I found the key.”

 

The other man nods as he heads for the table and dumps his pack.

“Yeah, all fine. Go for it. You might want to get a move on, though. Looks like it’s going to rain.”

“Right. Good point,” Dean mutters, hoping he doesn’t look as guilty as he sounds. He heads out to the porch and once he’s sure Aidan can’t see him he crouches and scrubs at his face with his hands. What was he thinking going through Aidan’s stuff? If he’d been caught...

 

The drawer is full of things that he clearly doesn’t want anyone else to see. Aidan never talks about his family, his past, any of that stuff. Why can’t Dean just leave it? He takes a deep breath and stands up. _Forget about it._ Aidan will tell him when he’s ready, if he wants to. Act normal.

 

 _Yeah right_ , he thinks _. Like that’s something that comes naturally._

 

* * *

 

Dean pushes his plate away and flicks crumbs from his knees. They’d been enjoying their lunch and laughing over a story that Dean’s telling him about when he’d gotten stuck in a mailbox. He’s been looking for a moment to ask Aidan about the photos, but nothing has presented itself so far. He doesn’t know why he can’t just drop it; but it seems unfair to him that Aidan knows so much about him, and Dean only found out his surname two days ago and even that was through someone else. He clears his throat and tries to sound casual.

 

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother.”

 

Aidan freezes mid-mouthful and frowns. He looks at Dean, and his whole expression has changed. He looks angry. Dean realises instantly that this was a bad idea.

“I don’t remember telling you about that,” he says in a low voice. He sounds measured but Dean can tell that there’s something bitter bubbling just below the surface.

“Oh, no you... You didn’t. Jed mentioned it?” Dean scrabbles for a name, any name, from the bar the other night; hoping he’s remembered it right.

 

Aidan’s eyes bore into Dean for what seems like ages. He’s never been very good at lying and he hopes his face isn’t giving him away. Eventually Aidan looks down and goes back to shovelling food into his mouth, eyebrows knitted low.

“Callum,” he growls, not looking up. Dean wonders if he might elaborate, but Aidan has closed himself down completely and it’s clear to Dean that this conversation is over.

 

Aidan finishes his food in a hurry and pushes back the box he’s sitting on.

“Stuff to do. I’ll be up the hill if you need me.”

The door swings shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and commenting, you lovely people. 
> 
> I know Aidan's brother is not actually called Callum, but this is AU, yo.
> 
> The next chapter is coming VERY soon, so check for updates!


	10. Basorexia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basorexia (n.) The overwhelming desire to kiss
> 
>  
> 
> In which Dean has a little revelation, and Aidan tries something new.
> 
> Lionsmane, this chapter is for you, for commenting every step of the way! x

Dean shields the screen of his camera from the light and peers at the last shot. Perfect. He’s been hacking his way through the undergrowth along the edge of the lake for the past couple of hours, relieved to finally feel like he’s got everything he needs for Richard. Thankfully the rain that had threatened earlier has cleared, and it’s warmer now than the morning had been. It’s promising to be a beautiful evening.

 

He tramps back to the cabin, unsure of what awaits him - if Aidan has even come back; but is pleasantly surprised to find the other man lying on the deck surrounding the house with a beer in his hand.

“Got you a cold one.”

He plucks up a bottle from next to him, cracking off the lid on the edge of a plank.

Dean reaches for it gratefully, kicking off his boots and slumping down next to him.

“God, I needed this. Did you carry these all the way out here?”

“Nah. Got a couple left inside from last autumn. They need drinking, actually.” He raises his eyebrows wickedly. “Wanna help?”

 

It sounds like an offer that’s too good for Dean to refuse, so Aidan springs up and ropes Dean into helping him take the rest of the beer round to the stream to cool down.

“This is more than just a couple,” Dean remarks, once they’ve lined up ten more bottles in the stony shallows.

“Aww Deano. You’re not up to it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean huffs, but he smiles all the same because he’s bloody relieved that Aidan seems to have recovered completely from his earlier mood.

 

* * *

 

The click of early cicadas fills Dean’s ears as he runs his eyes along the hug of the shoreline and up to where Aidan is dozing next to him, stretched out on his back in the lingering warmth of the evening. Dean is three beers in and is feeling deliciously relaxed. Aidan’s eyes had flickered shut not long after they’d lain down, but Dean is content to sit in silence, watching the lake flashing pink and gold under the lightly clouded sky. He wonders how much people would pay for a view like this.

 

“They always make me feel like I’m on the edge of something bigger.”

Dean whips his head round to where Aidan has pushed himself up so he’s leaning back on his hands, staring straight down the lake towards the flame-tipped mountains.

 

“Welcome back,” Dean quips, but Aidan ignores him and continues.

“Do you feel it? The way they pull you in?” Aidan’s eyebrows ask the question, furrowing gently in the middle of his smooth forehead. “I’ve climbed up there,” he points to the ridge towering along the west side of the lake, “and I thought I’d be so fucking thrilled to get to the top, but instead all it made me want to do was climb the next, and the next. They keep me continuously wanting to know more, feel more, see more.”

He looks down as he runs his hand over his stubble, like he’s almost embarrassed by his admission.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “Yeah. I think I know exactly what you mean.”

Aidan smiles. Dean notices for the first time that his front teeth are slightly crooked, and it occurs to him that it only makes him more attractive. Perfectly imperfect. Real.

 

“Did you know mountains have roots? And the taller they are, the deeper they go? I like that. The higher they reach, the more ambitious and precarious they get; the more stable and anchored they become. I wish I could... I wish life was like that.”

Dean looks at him out of the corner of his eye. Aidan’s woken up awfully philosophical. It’s unbelievably unexpected and entirely lovely.

He can’t help but marvel at how well Aidan keeps himself together, all calm and teetering on the edge of moody brooding; only to throw it all aside and let Dean into these moments, these insights and little speeches that hit Dean like sunburst and make him ache for more.

 

Dean’s stomach chooses that precise moment to growl and Aidan snaps out of his reverie.

“Sorry. I ahh, didn’t exactly bring dinner this time. I didn’t think you were coming...”

 

“Not to worry.” Dean jumps up, ducking inside to retrieve a plastic box from his rucksack.

“I almost forgot. Happy birthday.” He flips off the lid and holds it out to Aidan.

“Aww, no, I told you I hate bir... Is that chocolate fudge cake?” Aidan’s eyes light up as Dean hands him the box and he reaches for a slice like a kid in a sweet shop.

“Mmm. ‘s good. Really. Thanks, mate,” he says through his mouthful. “You know it’s not ‘til Tu-”

“- esday. Yeah, I know.” Dean chuckles as he finishes the sentence for him. "You might not like birthdays, but everyone likes cake."

Aidan elbows him lazily in the ribs.

“Your turn to get more beer.”He doesn’t speak again until he’s finished licking all the icing off his hands.

Dean watches him run his tongue along his finger and suddenly he’s feeling more than a little dry in the mouth.

 

* * *

 

Dean retrieves the drinks and flops back down next to Aidan, who’s face is raised to the darkening sky. He points upwards to the stars that seem to be popping into existence by the second.

“Do you know any?”

“Hmm?” Dean asks through his last mouthful of cake.

“Constellations. Do you know any?”

“Oh. Phh. Orion?” Dean offers, as he stretches himself out next to the other man. “The Southern Cross? That’s about it, really.”

Aidan breaks into a small smile, waving his hand above them.

“See there, that’s Andromeda. She’s a princess. Her parents chained her to a rock as a sacrifice to Cetus, a sea monster; but she was rescued at the last second by Perseus. It’s said he used the severed head of Medusa to turn the monster into stone.”

Dean puffs out in astonishment.

“Wait, wait; where?”

Aidan gently takes hold of Dean’s wrist and raises it upwards, tracing his hand over the star map.

“And that kind of square there, next to Andromeda? That’s Pegasus. The winged horse. When Perseus cut of Medusa’s head the blood fell into the sea and Pegasus was born.” His voice rolls around his story, low and soft as he guides their hands across the sky.

 

Dean gapes at Aidan in awe.

“How do you know this stuff?”

Aidan shrugs.

“Dunno, really, just have done for ages. I remember my Dad bought me this book when I was a kid...” He clears his throat. “I always thought it was so cool that you can navigate by them.”

“I guess. If you live in the Stone Age. There’s this thing called Google Maps now, you should check it out.”

“Piss off,” Aidan laughs. “I can’t show you Orion though. Too early in the year.” He points to the section of sky where the hunter should be. “You’ll have to come back on a clear night, it’s really something then.”

“I’d like that,” Dean smiles. He'd like that a lot.

 

“They’re nice though, don’t you think?”

It’s more than nice. It’s almost painfully perfect. He never did stuff like this with Lee. He hadn’t really been the outdoors kind. Dean is constantly amazed by all these surprising facets to Aidan that keep popping up. He feels so dull in comparison, realising he hasn’t had anything new or interesting to add to so many of their conversations. He’s just spoken about Lee, really.

 

 “Yeah.” Dean hums. “Bloody beautiful,” and at that exact moment he honestly couldn’t say if he’s talking about the sky or the man lying next to him.

 

Dean turns to watch Aidan and it dawns on him that for ages now he’s been trying to find excuses to make him laugh. Not just the happy yelp that he gives out so easily, but the one where he throws back his head and closes his eyes and pulls you in and sucks you under. Dean never really understood what an infectious laugh was until now. Aidan’s laugh climbs into him and gets under his skin and forces itself back out of Dean’s throat. It’s impossible to be sad when Aidan is like this.

 

He looks at him, all lean and relaxed, teeth glinting in the last of the light and Dean has the overwhelming urge to know what that laugh tastes like.

_How has he not seen it until now?_

Dean wants Aidan as much as he’s ever wanted anything in his whole life.

 

Before Dean knows what he’s doing he rolls over and kisses him. His mouth is so much softer than he would have thought, gorgeously smoky and warm and bitter with hops. His lips slip slowly, experimentally across Aidan’s. He feels the electric scratch of dark stubble grazing against his chin. He can tell that Aidan is holding his breath, his body frozen in place as Dean kisses him; and Dean tells himself to pull away, to face up to what he’s done.

_Just one more taste, just one more. One more to keep before he throws me out of his life._

 

And then Aidan breathes out, his mouth opening beneath Dean’s; and it's as if floodgates explode outwards. Their tongues move together, sliding over each other; teeth crashing. Aidan nips Dean’s lower lip between his teeth, and Dean moans out loud because _holy fuck, he’s kissing Aidan_   - and Aidan is really, properly kissing him back now.

 

He feels the other man’s body pressing against his own as Aidan leans into him, and suddenly Dean is maneuvered back against the boards and his hands are in Aidan’s hair. Dean gently nudges his thigh between Aidan’s legs, and if the other man is startled then he doesn’t show it, so Dean untangles a hand from the curls and glides it up, under Aidan’s t-shirt; finding the hot skin of his back.

 

To his surprise Aidan grinds down into Dean’s thigh, and he can feel the rock hard bulge that now presses into his leg. His own cock is aching against the fly of his jeans, desperate for attention. Aidan’s blatant arousal is making Dean feel brazen, so he breaks away from the breathless kiss and gently pushes Aidan to the side. He pulls his t-shirt up and off, chucking it on the floor next to him. Aidan lies panting next to him, hesitantly watching as Dean slides his hand down and slowly, deliberately, undoes the zip of his jeans.

 

Dean didn’t know he could get harder; but the sight of Aidan running his tongue along his lips, looking so gorgeously uncertain as he reaches down to work at the buckle of his own belt is just too much for him. Dean mewls as he leans forward and brushes Aidan’s hand aside, popping the buttons along the fly of his jeans for him. Aidan looks so turned on but so unsure, and Dean whispers as steadily as he can manage, “Is this... is this ok?”

 

Aidan says nothing but after a moment gives a sharp nod. He takes a ragged breath as Dean pulls his jeans down around his pale thighs for him and traces his hand slowly along the bulge in Aidan’s boxers. Dean hooks his finger in the waistband of the underwear and pulls those down too, leaving Aidan entirely surprised and totally exposed; his flushed cock curving away from the plane of his taut stomach.

 

He feels so warm against Dean’s cool hand. Aidan leans his head forward into Dean’s shoulder. His cock twitches as Dean rubs his hand up and over the head, finger dipping along the slit, teasing out a drop of precum and making Aidan groan.

 

Their mouths are near enough to kiss, but they don’t. Aidan’s eyes are so blown. His face is a perfect mixture of lust and trepidation. Dean hopes to god he isn’t fucking everything up between them, but it’s a bit late for that now, he thinks; as Aidan reaches out for Dean, fingers fumbling at his crotch.

 

Dean lets go of Aidan for a moment and deftly pushes his jeans down too, and Aidan gasps as Dean continues to fuck him with his hand. Aidan’s palm runs tentatively over Dean, making him shudder in anticipation; but Dean can tell he’s nervous and thinks it’s time to put the other man out of his misery.

“Here,” he whispers, and he shifts to line up their cocks, taking both of them in one hand _._ Aidan makes a low, wild sound and watches Dean stroke his hand over the two of them, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of fascination and pleasure. Dean starts slowly, basking in the somehow-filthily arousing sight of it, savoring the feeling of Aidan pressed so close against his skin; but he can’t hold back for long and soon he finds a rhythm as desperate as his need.

 

To his utter delight Aidan seems to be in ecstasy. He throws his head back, exposing the long trail of his throat and Dean can’t help but lean in and suck a deep kiss into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Aidan’s thighs shudder deliciously as Dean pumps his fist over them fast and hard and Dean knows he must be close. Aidan slides his hand round to the back of Dean’s neck and his fingers tangle in the short hair there. He thinks he could come just from the warm breath whispering _yes, nhh, yeah_ across his ear.

 

To Dean’s surprise he feels Aidan's fist wrap hot and fierce around his, shaking slightly; gripping their cocks so tightly, and Dean knows that he is going to come. He’s tried so desperately to hold out until Aidan finishes, but it’s been ages and the sight and the feel and the taste of Aidan like this is too much and he can’t and  _fuck fuck fuuuuck._

He spurts all over Aidan’s front and the t-shirt pushed halfway up his stomach and coats their hands slick and sticky and hot.

 

Aidan makes a desperate noise and then his cock jerks in Dean's hand, pulsing more come over the mess of their two tangled fists as he tightens his grip on Dean’s neck, working himself into their hands as he rides out his climax. For a while neither of them moves, still pressed panting against each other, jeans around thighs and fist over sticky fist. Their breathing levels out and finally Aidan murmurs,"Jesus Christ. That was something else.”

Dean allows himself to grin and rolls away, hastily grabbing his t-shirt from the floor and wiping at the mess across their hands and Aidan’s front.

 

“Yeah. Yeah it was.”

He stands and yanks his jeans back up round his waist as Aidan does the same, but neither of them moves to fasten them. Dean looks at him and thinks that in that moment Aidan looks so _young_ and open and almost lost, like he’s looking to Dean for guidance. Dean half expects him to say something sarcastic, or to laugh, or to tell him to fuck off; but he just stands with wide eyes and Dean realizes it’s up to him to make the next move.

 

He doesn’t think he’s very good at this sort of thing. It had always been Lee that led, Lee that taught him all sorts, Lee that was languidly confident. He doesn’t know what else to do but he wants Aidan to know that it’s more than this; more than quick hands and jerking off in the half-dark.

 

He steps in so his chest is pressed so lightly against Aidan’s and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, almost chastely; but he lingers, and when he pulls away only moves a few millimeters so that when he whispers, “Should we go to bed?” Aidan’s lips move with his, their foreheads resting on each other and tips of their noses touching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I'm sorry about this (covers face). To all those of you who write this stuff all the time, I salute you, so much harder than you'd think.  
> But doesn't it feel good to have gotten that out of the way?


	11. Selcouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selcouth (n.) Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvellous.
> 
>  
> 
> In which Dean panics, Aidan pacifies and Richard pries.
> 
> Just a bit of fluff, to tie up some loose ends for later on. 
> 
> DOUBLE WHAMMY WEDNESDAY! The next chapter is up too.

Dean wakes slowly and blinks over and over at the pitched wooden roof above him. He can’t work out why his neck is so stiff, until he realizes he has no pillow. He turns to locate it, only to find an almost-black muss of hair poking out from the covers next to him and a tanned arm draped possessively around two pillows.

_Bloody hell. So they really did._

Dean bites his lip and tries to shift himself across the bed without waking Aidan, but the other man grunts and rolls over, nudging himself into Dean and waking up in confusion. He squints at Dean out of one eye, the other still screwed shut; like he’s trying to remember why the hell they happen to be in a bed in the middle of the woods with no clothes on.

“Hey.” Dean tries to sound as cheery as he can.

After a beat Aidan groans and buries his head back into the pillow, and Dean feels his stomach tighten. He’s more than a little apprehensive about what Aidan might say.

 

They’d stumbled up to Aidan’s bed and slowly undressed. Dean hadn’t been able to help himself running his hands across Aidan’s chest, his back; learning the shape of him in the dark. Tracing constellations into his skin. Aidan had ducked in again and again to taste Dean’s mouth, but he’d taken Dean’s wrist lightly when he tried to dip his hand further down.

“I’m not... I mean I haven’t... before...” he’d stuttered, and Dean kissed the ridge of his collar bone.

“I know,” he’d replied, linking his fingers through Aidan’s and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Can we just...?”

Aidan had shifted himself up the bed a bit and pulled Dean in so that his head rested in the crook of his shoulder, and after a long while he’d drifted off listening to the steady sleeping beat of Aidan’s heart.

 

He worries now that in the cold light of day that he’s made a huge mistake. Last night had indeed been, in Aidan’s own words, _something else_ ; but now that he’s had all night to think about it he wonders how he could have been so stupid. He can’t just go around hitting on his mates out of the blue, even if they do happen to look like... _well_. He runs his eyes over Aidan’s sheet-wrapped body and feels himself harden just at the thought of him.

 

He reckons Aidan had to have been drunk, spouting all that stuff about mountains and stars. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s going to get kicked out any second.

 

“Dnnn...” Aidan grunts into the pillow.

Dean swallows nervously.

“C’ffee.”

 

Dean snorts but lets himself smile as the nervous turmoil in his stomach eases a bit. He drags himself out of the bed and into his jeans, obediently fumbling his way down the ladder to get Aidan his caffeine hit. Maybe he should have guessed that Aidan isn’t the type to give a damn. He carefully makes his way back upstairs, balancing two mugs in his hand.

 

* * *

 

Aidan’s either gone back to sleep or he’s bloody good at pretending. Dean gives him a nudge with his foot and he comes back to life, frowning at the mug as Dean hands it to him.

“Did I make it wrong?”

“Nope.”

“So why the face?”

“’s just my face.”

 

Dean settles on the edge of the bed as Aidan blows across the hot liquid. He’d better get it over and done with.

“So,” he says, looking at his feet.

Aidan sets his coffee down with a reluctant sigh, as if he knows what’s coming.

“So.”

“Look, I don’t know about you, but last night...” Dean trails off. He honestly doesn’t know what he wants to say. He wants to tell him how much he wants him, wants all of it. He doesn’t want to have to say what he thinks Aidan needs to hear.

 

“I ahh, wasn’t exactly planning on anything like this happening. I’m not going to lie; I guess recently I’d started hoping it might. I like you, Aid. I mean I know you’re not interested, but I just can’t help it.” Dean scratches his hands through his hair. He’s already ballsing this up _. “_ I’m really, really sorry that I just... I shouldn’t have just kissed you like that, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Dean...”

“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss back, or anything like that... It’s just... I hope I didn’t make you feel like you had to do something you didn’t want to because you feel sorry for me, or something.”

He’s rambling now, flailing for words.

“Deano...”

“I mean, fuck. I should probably go now. I’m just angry with myself ‘cos I actually think we could have been really good mates, and I think both of us could have really done with -”

 

But Dean doesn’t get any further, because Aidan hooks his fingers through the belt loops of Dean’s trousers and yanks him forward, kissing the words out of his mouth. He holds his lips to Dean’s for a few seconds, then murmurs, “Dean. Stop, will ya? I fuckin’ loved it.”

 

“Oh,” Dean manages.

 

“Look,” Aidan continues, shuffling himself back onto the bed and bashfully scrubbing his hands up and down his knees. “Honestly? I’ve got no idea what we’re doing. But apparently, neither do you. I can practically hear your brain shitting itself. Stop panicking, alright? I wanted to. If I didn’t, you’d know about it. It’s not like I was buzzed enough to have no idea what was happening.”

Dean chews his lip uncertainly. He can see Aidan is trying to choose his words carefully.

“I can’t say I’d exactly given it any thought myself, before you - we, uhm, kissed. And yeah, alright, I haven’t done... this before,” he gestures between himself and Dean. 

 

Dean fidgets with the edge of the bedcover.

 

“But there’s a first time for everything, right?”

The grin Aidan gives Dean is bright and roguish and Dean’s stomach does a flip.

“So stop freaking out. I think," he says shyly, a light blush flaring up on his cheeks, "I think I like you too. You’ll just have to let me find my feet. Take it slow. It’s all pretty new. Is that... ok?”

 

Dean is pretty sure there are flashbulbs popping somewhere behind his eyelids. He unclenches his teeth and smiles in relief.

“Yeah. Absolutely. Yes.” He couldn’t have hoped for that to go much better.

 

Aidan hauls himself up and swipes at the matted trail of hair running down his stomach.

“Ugh,” he groans. “I need a shower.”

“Race you to the lake?” Dean suggests.

“Ha. No thanks. You can wash in the lake if you want, but I usually just make do with the stream.”

 

Aidan picks up his t-shirt, but drops it back on the floor when he sees that the front is smeared white with come.

“Nice,” he winces. “Remind me to wear a raincoat next time.”

“Sounds hot, jerking off in a raincoat.”

Aidan’s smirk disappears below the floor as he descends the ladder.

“I always knew you Kiwis were into weird shit.”

 _Next time_. Dean can’t help feeling that sounds very much like a promise of round two.

 

* * *

 

They’re stretched out on the water-worn boulders by the stream. It’s unseasonably warm. Aidan’s thrown some water on himself but Dean has been for a proper swim in one of the deeper pools. He feels boneless in the thick air, heat radiating from the stone beneath him.

“Dean?” Aidan grunts from next to him. His fingers are running lightly across Dean’s knuckles, like he’s mapping mountains.

“Hmm?”

“When did you know that you... were attracted to guys?”

Dean sits up a little. He knows what Aidan is trying to say. He guesses Aidan is asking himself a lot of questions right now.

“Well you know, I think looking back the answer is that I always have been. When I was younger I didn’t really know that other people felt any differently so I didn’t really give it much thought, and then as I got a bit older I just tried to... ignore it? I’ve mostly dated girls, to be fair. Lee was my first proper boyfriend. I guess if I had to say for sure then it would be Marcus Byne, year nine. So divine.” He says the last part in a silly voice and rolls his eyes.

 

Aidan chuckles a little but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Tell me about teenage Dean,” he murmurs.

“Teenage dream, you mean?” Dean purrs.

Aidan laughs properly now and Dean adds another line to his mental tally.

 

“Honestly? I was a bit of a loser, I think.”

He sweeps back his damp hair. Dean had never felt that comfortable as a teenager. He’d been good-looking, had plenty of friends; but while all his mates grew lanky he’d stayed short, compact; and he’d hated it. His hair flopped the wrong way, his dimples were too embarrassing.

“I think I didn’t really get comfortable until I was at uni, you know? Really found something I was good at and loved and that there were loads of people like me. Meeting Richard had to be a turning point, I think...”

“You met Richard at uni? I thought he was your landlord.”

“Well it’s his house, technically yes; but he’s an old friend so it’s more like we’re just housemates. I was in my third year and he’d not long finished his postgrad stuff. He was teaching this module on interior design and everyone signed up for it because apparently the lecturer was some total spunk so I went along too.”

“Richard is sexy? God. I’ve got my mental image all wrong.”

“Yeah. I guess you could say he is, in a bookish kind of way. Hell, yeah; to be fair to him, he’s a good looking guy. Anyway. So while everyone else was fawning over him I actually made an effort to talk to him and we just hit it off. We’ve been mates ever since. He moved out here and then I started up on my own and a lot of my clients were near here and it just made sense to stay with him. He’s got the space and it’s not like he’s sharing it with anyone else.”

“No girlfriend? Wife?”

“I think you’d be more his type.”

“Ahh.” Aidan says. “Weren’t you ever tempted to hook up?” he asks cheekily.

“Me and Rich? Nah. We sort of tried it a bit actually, when we first met. I love him, you know, but it would never work. I’m too messy for him. I’d probably fold his cardigans wrong.” Dean smiles.

Aidan snorts.

“Cardigans, eh? Well you won’t have that problem with me.” He rolls toward Dean with a serious expression on his face. “But if you make me tear another t-shirt in half for you I swear to god I’ll -”

 

Dean cuts him off, and Aidan’s mouth is almost as hot as the rock against his back. Dean kisses him slowly, wanting to remember how it feels in case Aidan suddenly changes his mind about the whole thing. He still can’t quite believe that this is happening.

 

Aidan’s fingers work at Dean’s knuckles like he’s trying to make sure he is real.

“When do you have to leave?” he hums.

Dean breaks away slightly.

“I’ve got a client meeting first thing tomorrow.” He wishes to god he hadn’t arranged it now, but lately he’s been feeling a lot more interested in working. “But I don’t have to be back ‘til really, really late tonight.”

“Ok. I’ll walk out with you this evening. I’ve got some stuff on this week anyway. Probably won’t... won’t be able to catch up with you.” Aidan smiles apologetically and pulls Dean back in.

“But in the meantime,” he murmurs mischievously into Dean’s kiss, “Are you going to show me what else I’ve been missing out on?”

 

* * *

 

In one movement Dean takes Aidan’s whole length into his mouth. Aidan is lying flat against the smooth rock and Dean has nudged himself down between his thighs, kneeling in the cool water. It’s the first time he’s properly seen Aidan naked and he’s _spectacular_. Golden skin on silver stone. He’s kissed a trail down Aidan’s stomach, following the mahogany trail of hair that Dean just can’t help but rake his fingers through.

 

Aidan lets out a high-pitched moan and his knees stutter on either side of Dean’s torso, hands finding and raking through blonde hair. If Dean’s honest, he’s pretty smug about his ability to give head. He used to be so self-conscious, all rushed and clumsy. He was relieved to find that Lee was far, far more experienced than he was, and more than happy to show Dean a few neat tricks. He tightens his throat around Aidan’s cock and sucks as hard as he dares. From the way Aidan screws his eyes shut he knows that the other man isn’t going to last long.

 

“Jesus, oh fuck,” Aidan whines. He tastes like cold water and pine and the briny tang of salt. _Fucking delicious_. Taking Aidan’s cock out of his mouth, he hums contentedly as he laps at the drops of precum he’s teasing out. He sucks lazily at his swollen head, sliding a hand up the inside of Aidan’s thigh, trailing over his balls, making the Irishman buck into his mouth. Aidan pushes himself up so he can get a better view and the expression on his face goes straight to Dean’s own throbbing prick.

 

He flattens his tongue and licks up the entire underside, swirling around the head before taking him all back down, hollowing his cheeks. Aidan is grasping desperately at the boulder beneath him, trying to get some purchase with his hands but finding nothing. Dean knows he should be going easy on him, making it last; but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t want to give him the best blowjob he’s ever had.

 

“Ohhh... I’m g’na...”

Aidan throws his head back and clenches his teeth as he comes, and Dean manages to swallow most of it; though Aidan jerks and he gets half of it on Dean’s chin. Dean looks up through the yellow pollen-specked air and smiles lazily as he wipes his face. He knows he’s all bee-stung lips and messy hair.

 

Aidan’s eyes are wild honey. He’s looking at him like he’s never seen another human being, like Dean holds all the answers; like he’s god-damn irresistible.

He realises that all he wants is for Aidan to look at him like that every single day.

 

In that moment Dean feels like he’s being saved all over again.  

 

* * *

 

The lock makes a soft click as Dean closes the door behind him as quietly as he can. He creeps into the dark hallway and rests his back against the wall as he kicks off his boots. He knows he looks like an idiot with the stupid blissful smile that’s plastered across his lips but he can’t seem to get it to disappear, and he isn’t too sure he wants it to.

 

“What time do you call this?”

Dean jumps and looks round into the living area to find the source of the voice. It’s dark but there’s enough light from the open-plan kitchen for him to make out a pair of long, plaid pyjama-clad legs poking out from the bottom of the curtain by the wall of windows at the front of the room.

“It’s half past o... As if it’s any of your business?” Dean snorts, but it’s good natured. “Why are you still up?”

“Well someone has got be the responsible one. Who’s that?”

“It’s just... It’s... no-one. Anyway, what are you _doing?”_ Dean’s brow furrows as he moves into the room.

“Well, I’m spying, of course. I want to know where you’ve been. Stop deflecting.”

 

The curtain rustles and a dark head pops out, followed by a white t-shirt wrapped around a solid chest. Richard is clasping a mug of tea and wearing a mock serious expression.

“Where’s your car?”

“Left it in town, got a lift back. And anyway, it’s just a friend, actually; so you can stop asking questions now, thank you. Since when did you become my mother? And stop _peeping_ , for fucks sake,” Dean wrestles the curtain out of Richard’s hand as he goes to lift it again to have another look.                  

 

Richard smirks. “Do you spend five minutes sucking the face off all your friends when they drop you home in the middle of the night?”

Dean blushes furiously. “I... we... I was not _sucking his face,_ ugh. He’s... _”_

“So it is ‘he’, then.”         

“Damn it. Do you watch all your mates getting off with other people then? Pervert,” he laughs. “Seriously. He’s just a friend, though. I mean we’ve just met a handful of times, and,” Dean runs his hand through his hair, “and he’s... nice.” Richard raises an eyebrow but Dean huffs at him. “Don’t be like that. Don’t worry. It’s not like I’m going to throw myself at him. I’m still not ready... I just, you know. I might see him again. A lot.”

He wishes what was saying was true. He’s already way further in than he can handle.

 

Dean knows he’s earned the subsequent eye roll but he laughs all the same.

“C’mon, Rich. Aren’t you guys always telling me it’s time to enjoy myself? Have a little fun?”

Richard pads into the kitchen and searches the fridge, producing two beers and offering one to Dean.

“I have a feeling I’m going to need something stronger than tea. Are you going to elaborate?”

 

Dean licks his lips as he sinks into the deep couch, kicking his feet up into Richard’s lap. For a brief moment he gets a tantalising taste of kiss and shared late-night pizza, before raising the beer and washing it down, savouring it as it goes.

They sit in companionable silence for a while before Dean smiles shyly as he looks at his feet and quietly offers, “Aidan. His name is Aidan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you all know I stole the line "It's just my face," but it IS an Aidan classic. 
> 
> Once again thank you for still reading, enjoying and commenting! Love x


	12. Mágoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mágoa (n.) A heartbreaking feeling that leaves long-lasting traces, visible in gestures and facial expressions.
> 
> In which Dean has a little chat with Graham.

Dean sits at his computer and watches the screen jiggle up and down in time with the restless _tap-tap-tap_ of his feet on the floor. He’s supposed to be editing Richard’s photos, but he’s had Photoshop open for fifteen minutes and so far he hasn’t even opened a file.

 

It’s Tuesday. Dean knows Aidan said he hates birthdays, and that he was busy; but he can’t just let him ignore it. It wouldn’t be so weird to give him a birthday present, would it? The problem is, he hasn’t got a clue what the other man might like. It’s not like he actually knows him that well, after all. He realises he doesn’t even know how old Aidan is. Lee was a flowers and fragrance and fancy homewares kind-of-guy, but something tells him that Aidan isn’t really into that. He swipes his hands across his face in frustration.

 

He drags up the folder of photos he’d taken over the weekend and absentmindedly flicks through them, but he stops and clicks back a few shots. _There_. He’d been walking back up the lake and snapped a last picture of the cabin. It’s a wide shot, the cabin just off centre; the dark green valley set off against the blushing lake and then there’s Aidan, standing on the deck; hands planted firmly on the railings and looking for all the world like he’s king of the whole damn lot. He hadn’t even noticed him there when he’d taken it. Dean smiles and loads his printer with his best photo paper.

 

He stares at the print on the table for a good five minutes before snapping it up and taking it into the living area. He rummages in the cupboard and locates one of his spare frames and some brown paper, and quickly wraps the photograph before he has a chance to change his mind again.

 

* * *

 

Aidan has told him roughly where he lives, and he doesn’t think his pickup should be too hard to spot. He wanders around for a few blocks, but just as he’s beginning to doubt himself he spots Aidan’s car parked at the side of the road. The driveway of the house contains a sleek café racer motorbike, and he idly strokes his hand over the tan leather seat as he makes his way to the door. He isn’t even sure, exactly, if this is the right house; but he raises his hand and tentatively knocks anyway.

 

A well-built, balding man towers in the doorframe. Looks like someone who could probably lift Dean up by his earlobe. He glowers at Dean.

“Oh. Hello. Is... ahh, is Aidan home?”

“Yes,” the man answers curtly.

“Can - right. Could I maybe talk to him?”

“He’s got a migraine. I shouldn’t disturb him if I were you.” The man folds his arms and leans casually against the frame, almost as if he is enjoying making Dean squirm.

“Oh. Oh.” Dean is feeling flustered. The man is staring intensely at Dean and it’s making him jittery.

“You must be Dean.”

“Aidan told you about me?” Dean says, and his heart flickers with unfamiliar emotion.

“Not exactly. He told me he’d had some help on the cabin recently, though. Asked me to pick him up another suture kit. Apparently some plonker called Dean split his head open. I’m pretty good at maths. Two and two together, you know,” he says, pointing to the still-healing scar on Dean’s forehead.

 

Dean blushes and the feeling subsides slightly.

“Oh, right. Yes, that’s me. I’m not sure if I’ve been much help, exactly; but I’ve been out there a couple of times, yes. It’s more like he’s helping me, actually. I’m taking some photos for a book.”

“I see.”

“Well. Seeing as I’m here. Would it be alright if I just,” Dean holds up the package, “Leave this with you?”

Graham takes it from Dean without taking his eyes off him. He’s making him feel nervous. He fidgets on the step.

“I’ll just go then. Tell... tell Aidan I stopped by?”

He turns to leave but as he does Graham says, “Seeing as you’re here. Would you like to come in for a coffee? Aidan won’t come down but you can tell me how it is that you two came to meet.”

 

It’s more of a command than a question, and Dean gulps as he enters the house. It’s nice. Big. Lots of mid-century modern furniture and large pieces of South Sea Islands art work. Graham shows him to the table in the kitchen and settles into a chair after he pours them both a coffee.

“So. You an old friend or something, Dean? Meet him at knitting group? Pony club?”

Dean is pretty sure the man is joking, even if he isn't very fucking funny. He’s bloody nosy. What is he, his dad or his landlord? He wonders if Richard comes over this protective when people talk to him about Dean.

 

He fidgets at his stubble.

“Ahh. It’s a bit embarrassing, I suppose. I went for a bit of a swim out at the cabin and got into a spot of trouble. Thankfully Aidan just happened to be there at the time and... well, he saved me.”

“Aidan?” Graham chortles. “Come _onnn_ , what were you really doing?” His eyes twinkle. “Was it something illegal?”

Dean is perplexed.

“No, really. Dragged me off the bottom of the lake, to be precise.”

“There’s no way he’d have jumped in there. Aidan’s terrified of the water!”

He’s really thrown off balance now.

“He... he is?”

“Sure! Hasn’t been underwater since his Dad died as far as I know. Can’t even get the bastard to take a bath!” Graham laughs lightly, but hesitates when he sees the confusion written all over Dean’s face.

“Oh. Right. Yes,” Dean says as his mind reels.

“Aye, it’s a terrible sad story but he’ll have to stop blaming himself at some point. I’m sure he’s told you all this though, seeing as yous two are friends?”

“He - he might have mentioned it,” Dean lies. “Remind me again?” He feels terrible for going behind Aidan’s back but he wants to get it out of Graham, whatever it is that Aidan hasn’t told him.

 

Graham’s eyes narrow and Dean suspects he’s seen straight through him. After a while he flicks his gaze up to the ceiling as if he’s worried Aidan might hear them. He exhales deeply.

“You didn’t hear it from me, alright? He doesn’t like to talk about it so I shouldn’t go singing out about it if he hasn’t told you. But if you’re spending time with him then it’s probably better that you know.”

Dean holds his hands up.

 

“He grew up on the water, that boy. Him and his brother were barely ever dry by the sounds of things. Dad was a sailor. Used to deliver boats back and forward across the Atlantic. They knew what they were doing.” Graham folds his arms and leans his chair back against the wall.

 

“His Dad wanted the boys to help him on a job. Moving a yacht after it had been in the dock for repairs. Aidan had some time off work. It was his birthday, so he’d been going hard; enjoying himself out and about, you know. He’d said he wasn’t going but somehow his Dad talked him in to it last minute. So off they go, lad with his cracking hangover and all. I don’t know the detail of what happened, exactly; he doesn’t like to go into it. But I do know the weather turned and they end up in all sorts of trouble. The boat turns over; the keel comes off, of all things. It was instantaneous, he told me. There was no time to think, just this almighty bang and over she goes. He and his brother were on the deck at the time. Both got knocked overboard but they managed to climb up onto the overturned hull. They were both hurt. Aidan hit his head – you’ve seen the scar in his eyebrow? Not much to look at now but I gather it was quite nasty at the time. His brother hurt his knee somehow, can’t move his leg much.

 

“Their Dad’s down in the galley. Broke his back as they went over, it seems. Aidan and his brother are banging on the hull and miraculously they hear the dad is banging back. He’s got himself wedged up in an air pocket but he can’t move. Aidan, the bloody fool, decides to go for it and jumps in to get him. Rigging everywhere, rough seas... Anyway, Aidan manages somehow to grab him and get them out of the hatch and up to the surface, god knows how. Bear in mind it’s pitch black down there and they’re upside down; stuff everywhere and the water’s flooding in... He drags his dad up onto the hull; breaks his elbow doing it, mind.

 

“His brother is gone. Nowhere to be seen. Aidan’s frantic but he spots him in the water about fifty metres away, washed in by a wave most likely, though Aidan will never really know. Poor lad can’t swim, given his leg. He’s going under, screaming at Aidan. So Aidan has to make a choice. He can jump in after his brother, or he can hang on to his Dad. He had to choose, Dean.”

 

Graham jabs his finger into the surface of the table. “Nobody should have to do that. He watches his brother drown while he stays on the wreck with his Dad. Aidan sat up there and held him for three hours before he died, the boat being thrown around the whole time. Then another two hours alone with his Dad’s body - he never let go. You can only imagine the state he was in when they found him. Barely alive himself.”

 

Graham shakes his head sadly. “It’s been two years this week and the lad is still convinced he killed them. He says if he hadn’t been out drinking he’d have made better decisions. That he’d have checked the boat, the weather, everything better in the first place. He reckons he should have been able to get them out of trouble. That he might have been able to save his father, at least.”

 

Someone has stuck a cold fist down Dean’s throat. He feels sick.

 

“His mother didn’t take it too well. Blamed him too. Even said to him he should have died trying to save them. Cut him off, really. Totally unfair, but she was devastated and people do funny things, don’t they? Obviously didn’t help at all. He heard a few months later that she’d died in a car accident so he never got to work it out with her. He tried to go back to work but, well. I think that was really what did it. You do know he worked for the coastguard? Helicopter search and rescue?”

 

Dean just opens and closes his mouth like a fish. It’s starting to make sense now. The fact he just _happens_ to be able to fly a chopper. The medical know-how. Saving Dean. Not wanting to go swimming.

 

The shut-away photos. They’re obviously looked at often, given their curled edges and faded colours; but they’re not pinned to the walls or propped up on the ledges.

 

He talks and talks but never about his family. _You can wash in the lake if you want, but I usually just make do with the stream._ He wasn’t cold while they’d sat eating that first night, he’d been in shock. Dean has made him cry over and over. Red eyes by the fire. _It’s just hayfever._

Fuck. No wonder he hates birthdays.

 

Dean closes his eyes as he whispers through his dry mouth, “What happened?”

“Well, for a few weeks it was alright; they had him on gentle duties I think, pottering around in the harbour, that sort of thing. But one night there’s a call out and they’re short-staffed so Aidan’s back on the chopper. He was a co-pilot, normally; but there was no-one else. They get out there and he’s supposed to be holding it steady but he just can’t do it. It’s dark and the weather isn’t good and it all must have just been too much, too soon. He freaks and panics and the guy in the water... well, he ends up drowning. Since then...” Graham sighs.

 

“I should have liked to have met him before all this. He’s a good lad but he’s still very raw about it. He’s running away from it and he’s living half a life here if you ask me. Kid has got a lot to offer.” He looks at Dean pointedly. “And I’d like him to learn that it’s alright for him to enjoy himself despite what happened. He needs to learn to believe that it’s not his fault.” He takes a long sip from his cup, watching Dean over the rim.

 

“Look. I don’t know what you two are doing out there and it’s none of my business. But you do me favour alright? Be careful. I don’t know why he does it to himself, staying out there if he’s so afraid of the water. Somehow it’s like he has to keep it close by, as a reminder or something. He’s come a long way already with this, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t take much for him to fall back into the wreck of a man he was when he got here. Don’t you hurt him.”

 

Dean shakes his head in astonishment.

“I’m not - I mean I wouldn’t... Christ. I don’t... know what to say.” Nausea bubbles in his stomach. He  doesn't want to believe, can’t believe what Graham has just told him. It’s... horrible. His heart breaks for Aidan and everything he’s been through. How can he possibly think it was his fault? Dean doesn’t know much about boats or the sea but he’s pretty sure he couldn’t have done anything differently.

 

Dean knows about loss though; knows how he must feel... but wait. He doesn’t though, does he? Dean has lost Lee, but Aidan has lost _everything_. His whole family. Dean has his on call whenever wants them, not that he ever does; and all his old friends around him to at least attempt to carry him through this. Richard. Adam. Even Luke. Aidan has left his all behind.

This whole time, Dean has been leaning on Aidan when really it should have been the other way round. He thinks about his inexplicable need to see him, and realises he relies on Aidan to prop him up, to pipe up with exactly the right words whenever Dean needs his hurts comforting.

And fuck, Dean doesn’t even want to begin to think about the things he’s made Aidan confront since they met. He didn’t exactly force him into the water, but what choice did Aidan really have? Jump in, or watch someone else drown. To be fair it’s not like Dean knew. He still, to Aidan’s knowledge, doesn’t; but he can only begin to guess how terrified he must have been; how much worse he must have been making the other man feel all this time.  

 

“I... I. I should go.” Dean stands up hastily and takes his jacket from the back of the chair.

Graham eyes him levelly.

“He really jumped in the lake for you?”

Dean nods. Graham raises his eyebrows while he drains his coffee and stands up.

Dean holds his hand out but Graham doesn’t shake it.  

“Well. Goodbye Dean. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but...” Graham shrugs.

_What a prick._

“Cheers for the coffee.” Dean says a little more coldly than he’d intended, dropping his hand. “If you could see that he gets the parcel, I’d appreciate it. I’ll see myself out.”

 

He only gets as far as the corner of the street before he needs to wrap himself round a lamp post to keep himself from sinking to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wreck and story of survival is loosely based around a mind-blowing, terribly sad real-life story of someone I know (which was covered in the press and they have no objection to me adapting!)  
> So there we have it. Poor Aidan's secret.  
> Hands up who saw that coming?


	13. Smultronställe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smultronställe (n.) literally, 'a place of wild strawberries'; a special place discovered, treasured, returned to for solace and relaxation; a personal idyll free from stress or sadness.
> 
>  
> 
> For Marigold, for making me feel important.
> 
> In which the boys go up, and get down.

Dean is dragged from sleep by the noisy vibration of his phone dancing somewhere on the bedside table. Not bothering to lift his face out of the pillow, he flaps about with his hand until he locates it, and squints at the screen.

_7.54am Hey Deano. Flying out to the cabin today, wanna ride? Aid._

Dean sits bolt upright. He hasn’t heard from Aidan all week, and now here he is all breezy. Dean has been too worried to text him – too confused about what he should say. He knows he promised Graham that he wouldn’t say anything - and he intends to keep that promise; but it doesn’t change the fact that he now has absolutely no idea how to behave around Aidan. He thinks of all the times he must have alluded to his fears and sadness in his every day prattling.

 _“Oh hey Aidan, wanna race to the lake?”_   _“Oh hey Aidan, tell me about your brother.”_

It makes Dean cringe.

 

But on the other hand, he is desperate to see him. He hasn’t been able to get him out of his mind all week, and not just because of his conversation with Graham. Last weekend had been mind-blowing. He hadn’t dared hope he’d be with Aidan like this. He can’t quite understand how he hadn’t realised what it was he was feeling for Aidan, but he puts it down to grieving over Lee. It’s all so new, and still raw; and he flits between crushing guilt over having feelings for someone else, and excitement about the new lightness he finds himself carrying, the desire he feels for life; the need he has for just being around Aidan.

 

To his delight it had been Aidan that hadn’t wanted to leave when he’d dropped Dean home the previous weekend, pulling him back into heated giggly kisses across the gear stick of his truck before Dean had finally wrenched himself away.

He’s barely allowed himself to dwell on what might happen next.

 

His fingers rake over the keyboard before he taps out a reply.

_7.57am Sounds neat. When are you heading off?_

_7.59am Leaving 30 mins. See u soon_.

 

Aidan’s attached directions to the airfield. Dean pulls them up on the internet and groans when he sees it’s a 25-minute drive. He curses Aidan under his breath as he yanks his toothbrush from the holder and throws himself into the shower. He’s still pulling his shoes on as he opens the front door.

“Going out?” A tousle-headed Richard pads into the hall, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Ahh, yeah. I’ll be off for a bit. Might not be back tonight, so...” Dean shrugs and Richard nods at his disappearing back.

“Have fun.”

 

* * *

 

“Morning!” Aidan yells from the cockpit. “What kept you? Was just about to go without you.”

Dean makes an incredulous noise.

“Sorry. Maybe you could have given me a little more warning?” He’d screeched into the parking area and made his way over as fast as he could. Aidan isn’t difficult to spot, as the airfield is practically deserted and his is the only helicopter there.

 

Aidan beams and suddenly Dean forgets everything he was going to say. He looks like a walking cliché - leather jacket, mirrored Aviators perched on his head and headset slung casually around his neck as he goes through his pre-flight checks. His stubble is growing out to a short beard and Dean tells himself to stop standing around with his mouth hanging open.

“C’mon,” Aidan pats the passenger seat up front. Dean goes to climb in but a familiar bald head appears from the back of the chopper, startling him. Graham gives Dean a stern look and shuts the hold door.

Dean gulps and gets into the cockpit anyway, eyeing Graham warily as he leans in to Aidan, whispering, “Is he coming too?”

 

Aidan looks across to Graham standing cross-armed on the tarmac and laughs.

“Nah. Just giving me a hand loading up, that’s all. Why? Hasn’t he made a good impression on you or something?”

Dean smiles weakly but Aidan winks.

“Don’t worry. He’s a pussycat really, once you get to know him.”

Dean doubts very much there’s anything sweet and fluffy about Graham, but he feels a little more at ease knowing that he won’t be joining them.

 

“All done, kiddo.” Graham passes him a final box that Aidan stows carefully between Dean and himself.

“Cheers man. You take this over for me?” Aidan hands Graham a stack of paperwork.

“Aye. See you Monday?” Aidan nods as Graham directs his gaze to Dean, lifting his white eyebrows menacingly as he slams the passenger door shut. “Behave yerself.”

 

Aidan catches Dean’s terrified expression and roars with laughter.

“He’s winding you up, you know. Just ignore him. Here.”

He unhooks Dean’s headset and hands it to him, explaining how to use the foot pedal if he wants to talk to him while they’re flying. Dean gets himself strapped in while Aidan turns his attention to the array of switches, carefully watching gauges as he starts the engine. The noisy whine of it surprises Dean even through his ear protection. Aidan takes the rotor up a little while they sit stationary, adding to the din; and Dean feels the skids wobble a little on the ground, almost as if the aircraft is anticipating being airborne. He sees Aidan settle his headset over his ears and quickly fastens his harness, talking into his mouthpiece; presumably to someone in the tiny control shed of the airstrip, before looking across to Dean.

“Ready?” Aidan’s low voice rolls around his ear.

Dean gives him the thumbs up and with that Aidan guides the chopper gently upwards so they’re hovering just a few metres above the ground, the craft wobbling just slightly as they leave the tarmac; before it pitches forward and Aidan banks it up and away.

 

* * *

 

Dean is astonished to find that there’s a window underneath his feet, and that he can see straight down to the forest below. It’s a little unnerving but incredible all the same, and he finds it hard to tear his eyes away. He glances over to Aidan. Aidan, who at this very second looks unbelievably beautiful. He’s so relaxed, steering with the joystick between his knees; but he looks so confident and although Dean can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses he feels a kind of contentedness radiating from him. Dean wonders how the story Graham had told him can possibly be true. Aidan doesn’t look in the slightest nervous about flying. It doesn’t look like it’s stirring up any uncomfortable memories for him. He looks like he’s completely at home up here. For all he knows, Graham is winding him up, trying to make even more of an idiot out of him. 

 

He's arrived at the decision that he hates Graham. He’s not exactly likeable anyway, in Dean’s opinion; but he hates that he told him. Dean could have been sitting here right now in blissful ignorance, enjoying the view both in and out of the chopper. He should be looking forward to his weekend with Aidan – and he is, oh god he _is;_ but the little voice at the back of his head is nagging at him and his heart catches a little that Aidan wasn’t the one to tell him and seems to have no intention of doing so.

 

Dean fumbles with the foot pedal so that he can talk to Aidan.

“What’s the deal with you and Graham, anyway? How do you know him, again?”

“Eh? Gray? Oh. He’s friends with my uncle.” Aidan looks mildly thrown by the out-of-place question. “Knew each other back in the day. Graham lived in Ireland for a while. I had no idea who he was, actually; I’d never met him. But when I came over my uncle dropped me a line and put me in touch. Beats living with a total stranger.”

Dean doubts that living with Graham beats much, but he doesn’t say so.

 

Aidan is focused on the flight. Dean can’t help but feel a pang of sadness that he hasn’t so much as alluded to what happened the previous weekend. No meaningful looks, no jokes. He hasn’t even changed his mind and shot him down. He’s got the perfect poker face, and Dean even begins to wonder if he’s forgotten about it; but moments later when he’s turned his attention back to the window to the side of him he feels a hand squeeze his knee. Dean isn’t sure if it’s just the helicopter banking sideways, but he feels something shift inside himself and his world tilts a little.

 

Aidan takes his time pointing out various landmarks and features that Dean has never seen from the road. They’re flying low up the length of the lake, the steady whomp of the rotors above them making the whole craft vibrate and Dean's body hum in turn. Their shadow races across the lake, a black dot scudding across the silver surface below. Aidan pulls up slightly and Dean thinks he spots the cabin, feeling a little disappointed that the journey is over so fast. Aidan looks over and waggles his eyebrows.

“Wanna go sightseeing?”

 

Dean grins and nods eagerly, and Aidan steers the chopper away from the cabin and up towards the mountain ridge behind. Pristine pockets of snow lie in the high valleys despite the warm sun, and the lake glints sapphire from this height. For a while they fly along the ridge line, the world falling away on either side. Haphazard blankets of loose scree drape the cabin-side of the summit. Aidan steers the aircraft low through a narrow cleft in the massive rock walls, and beyond them lies an endless stretch of silver-tipped peaks that look like they’ve never been touched.

 

Dean exhales slowly, in awe of the beautiful view. He feels his doubts begin to fade, his worry over constantly doing things to make Aidan feel worse flying out of the window. Aidan has handled it so far. He’s still seeking Dean’s company. He resolves to make sure that from now on he does everything he can to make Aidan as happy as he’s making him.

 

He’s never been this far west. He had no idea it looked like this.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Aidan smiles under his mirrored lenses.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “You can say that again.”

Aidan takes the craft a little further out, before pulling it round and back down towards the forest.

 

He carefully manoeuvres the chopper into the tight landing pad that they’d cleared weeks ago now, the skids touching the ground with the slightest bounce of the suspension. Aidan flicks a bank of switches as the rotors slow, and finally signals to Dean that he can unbuckle. He hops out and stretches luxuriously.

“I just want to do a quick once over,” he says, “But if you could start dragging stuff out the back that’d be great.”

Dean is more than happy to oblige and soon enough there’s a huge pile of assorted tools, timber and supplies for them to lug down to the cabin.

 

“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out,” Aidan says as he walks over to join Dean after finishing his inspection, shrugging off his jacket as the warmth of the day picks up. He picks up a plastic box and playfully tosses it to Dean, who just about catches it. He hoists another up onto his own shoulder. “Try not to kill yourself on the way this time, eh?”

 

Dean goes to kick him with his boot but Aidan dodges out the way, and makes off down the slope.

“Hey Dean?” He reaches the line of trees at the edge of the clearing, and he doesn’t look back but Dean can tell he isn’t joking any more when he says, “I missed you.”

 

* * *

 

The cabin is strewn with the contents of the chopper that they’ve spent the better part of the day ferrying down the hill. There’s piles of stuff everywhere, though to Dean’s amusement Aidan is really only interested in the boxes of food.

 

“There’s not going to be anything left if you keep eating it all,” Dean had admonished as he passed Aidan heading back up the slope for another load.

Aidan smiled through his mouthful of chocolate, reaching out to pat Dean’s stomach.

“Just trying to keep you company,” laughing as he said it. He’d headed off into the trees but threw Dean an overly-dramatic wink before he went.

 

Dean wishes he could eat like Aidan does – eat as much _crap_ as he does; but he’s spent the better part of six months lazing around in bed and he doesn’t have the advantage of hanging out in a forest building a cabin. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t look like Aidan even if he hit the gym every day anyway. He’d watched as the other man stopped and yanked his t-shirt off, swiping at his brow in the prickling heat, and suddenly his knees had felt a little weaker.

 

As Dean threw down the last armful of wood, he’d sunk heavily to the floor, exhausted; but Aidan had slid up next to him and leaned in to his mouth.

“Finally,” he’d said softly as he’d tentatively dragged Dean down into the dust. “I’ve been going out of my mind all day.”

 

* * *

 

Dean marvels at the sight before him, unable to tear his eyes away.

 

Aidan is stretched out on the floor, sweat crowding his eyelashes as it runs off his forehead. Pearly light from the sunset squints through the windows, lighting him up. Dean knows he’s being mean, keeping Aidan on the edge for just a little too long, but he wants this to last. He works his fingers into him, lost in the velvet heat. He honestly can’t remember having ever seen anything so beautiful and he wants to wrap himself around Aidan, to stay here until they don’t know where one of them begins and the other ends.

 

“Ohh, I want...” Aidan gasps, burying his face under his forearm.

 

Dean slowly drags his fingers out and Aidan hisses at the loss of stimulation.

“What do you want, gorgeous?”

“It's so... good. Want... more... want you.”

Dean thinks he might just come there and then at the sight of Aidan laid open before him, practically begging him. Aidan glistens with perspiration and lube and his own arousal. Dean links his fingers through Aidan’s and dips in for a kiss.

“Are you sure?”

“Yessss. ‘m ready. Please, Deano. Need...” Aidan writhes and Dean can’t resist any longer.

 

Dean lines himself up and nudges himself against Aidan, slowly, oh-so agonisingly slowly sinking his way forward into him. It takes him all his willpower not to thrust into Aidan in one swift movement.

“Holy...shiiii –” Aidan whines, and shudders as his pained expression dissolves to ecstasy. “Oh _God_ , yes.”

Dean waits a moment longer before he rolls his hips forward, gently at first; but as Aidan grows accustomed to the sensation he can feel him relaxing and grinding back against him, and it’s too much. Dean angles upwards to find the spot that he knows will drive Aidan wild. He wants to see him come undone, wants to be the one to make their stars collide.

“Fuck! Fuck. _Fuck_ ; do that again, do... do it again...”

 

But Dean doesn’t do it again, because at that exact moment there is a loud knock on the door. They freeze. Their faces form a mirror of shock inches apart, and then both whip round to stare at the door. The knock comes again, this time accompanied by a rich, plummy voice.

“... definitely home because there’s noises inside. I’ll have a look through the window.”

Dean pulls out of Aidan far too fast and he yelps in pain but sits up all the same, clutching Dean’s shoulders.

 

"Hide?" Dean proffers.

“Where? You go!” Aidan hisses.

“It’s your bloody house!”

Aidan lets out a frustrated grunt and shoves himself up, tripping over Dean and flailing for the nearest piece of clothing. He yanks Dean’s sweatpants up his legs and dashes to the sink to throw some water on his face. As he fumbles with the door he crosses his legs in an attempt to hide the raging boner that seems to have no intention of fading.

Dean snatches up his t- shirt and clutches it to his groin, sliding himself into the space behind the door. He’s dying to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it all but he pinches his lips together.

 

“Ahh! I thought there had to be someone home!”

“Mmm!” Aidan whimpers. “Can I help?”

“Well I hope so. My wife and I have been walking for the last few days and she’s got the most awful blister. Only we’ve run out of plasters and she’s convinced she can’t walk another step without seeing to it!”

“ _Oh for goodness...”_ Dean hears Aidan mutter under his breath. “Right. Well. I’ll see what I can do. Stay there.” Aidan is practically grinding his teeth and glares at Dean as he goes to dig out his medical kit. For his part, Dean finds the whole thing hilarious, which only seems to make Aidan twitch even more.

He returns to the door brandishing a dressing for the stricken woman.

“There y’are. Alright? Hope that sorts it.”

He goes to swing the door closed but the man continues, “While we’re here, perhaps you can just show us on the map...”

 

Dean doesn’t hear the rest because through the crack in the door he can see Aidan’s face and it’s just too much. He can’t help but think that Aidan is a much better sport than he’d have been as he dutifully points out their location on the enormous paper map that is being wielded in front of him. Dean hears a woman’s voice pipe up.

“Gosh, dear; you look worn out. Have you been for a jog?”

“Push ups!” Aidan exclaims, and this time Dean tastes blood as he bites his tongue. Aidan’s voice is becoming so high-pitched he practically sounds unhinged. He’s half tempted to reach for his clothes and pop his head round the door too, but he’s enjoying Aidan’s desperate improv far too much. 

“Right! If that’s everything, I really must get on.” This time Aidan flashes her a wicked sunny grin and raises a dark eyebrow. “I’ve got a hell of a work out planned.”

Dean nearly chokes.

 

The couple take a good few minutes dragging out their thanks and farewells, and Aidan finally closes the door behind them, sliding down the rough boards until he’s sitting on the floor with his head thrown back and eyes pinched shut. 

“Jaaaysus,” he whines.

Dean throws himself forward into Aidan’s lap, feeling like he might bust a rib from laughing so hard.

“It’s not funny!” Aidan yelps, but Dean can hear the smile in his voice and soon he’s laughing just as hard.

“Ohh,” he moans as he sobers up, wiping his eyes with his hand. Dean leans in to give him a kiss but Aidan fobs him off with a peck.

“God, what a fuck-up. Mood killed?” Dean asks sadly.

“Definitely. For now at least. Sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he smiles. “I’ve got another idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is a bit of a bridge; but there'll be more big scenes soon!
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading this far and your lovely comments. You're all gorgeous! X


	14. Habromania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Habromania (n.) Delusions of happiness
> 
> In which the boys are left breathless.

Dean takes another bitter swig from the now half-empty flask and shudders, before handing it back to Aidan. They’ve settled into the chairs by the unlit stove, though really, he thinks; they should be out on the deck. The sun has only just finished setting but the sky is almost white with the full moon, the clear air lending a glassy chill to the evening.

 

Aidan presses the bottle to his lips.

“We need lime.”

“Sorry. I didn’t get that far.”

Dean had produced the hip flask full of tequila with a dramatic flourish, and though Aidan had protested that he wasn’t much of a spirits man, it hadn’t taken him much persuading to join in. Dean absentmindedly rubs Aidan’s feet which rest in his lap; poking out of the cuffs of the too-short sweatpants.

 

He thinks about how what they just started – _no, what they’ve done_ ; changes everything. About what it means for them. About how much he wants more.

He can’t help but be more than a little disappointed that they were so crudely interrupted but he knows it’s up to Aidan to decide when he’s ready to try again.

 

Aidan shifts in his seat and swings his feet down, leaning forward and intently studying his hands. Dean wonders now if Aidan is having second thoughts, if it’s all been too much too soon. The fading light throws shadow up his face, sharpening his cheekbones and darkening his eyes.

The chiaroscuro of Aidan.

He suddenly longs for his camera. Dean marvels at him. How can anyone possibly look like this and be so unaware and unassuming? He smiles as he traces the curve of Aidan’s lips with his eyes.

 

Aidan pushes himself back and tugs at the neck of the sweater he’s thrown on.

“You alright?” Dean hums.

“Yeah. Just... It’s pretty hot in here, don’t you think?”

Dean shrugs. He’s not cold but he wouldn’t say it was overly warm.

“Maybe you should take some of those clothes off,” he winks suggestively.

Aidan rolls his eyes but frowns.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think... I don’t think I feel so well, actually. Bit dizzy.”

“What’s up?” Dean sits forward and sees that Aidan’s face is quite red after all. “Hey, you’re right. Maybe you should get some fresh air?”

 

Aidan nods but he doesn’t get up. He’s rolling his lips between his teeth, almost as if he’s trying to scratch them. His eyes are focused intensely on the blank air in front of him, like he’s lost in thought. He coughs.

“Dean?” he asks quietly. “What’s in that flask?”

“This? It’s just tequila.” Dean creases his brow in confusion. “Though you can probably taste a bit of that crap that I poured away before I filled it up. One of Luke’s more disgusting Christmas offerings. Kiwi liqueur. Tasted more like-”

Aidan looks like he’s been shot.

“Kiwi?”

“Yeah... why?”

 

But Aidan doesn’t answer as he shoves the chair backwards, staggering towards the sink. He takes three steps, but on the fourth he crashes to his knees and throws up forcefully, hands scraping at the wooden floorboards.

“Aid!” Dean leaps up and runs to him. “Bloody hell, are you ok?”

 

But Aidan doesn’t look right, and he doesn’t sound right either. His breath is coming in high shuddering gasps, rasping and scraping at the back of his throat. His face is flushed, and as he leans forward to retch Dean can see a fiery rash spreading across his back where his sweater has ridden up.

“Did you touch something outside? A plant or something? You’ve got a rash...”

“Ler... kiwi...’lergic.”

“What? I don’t... what?”

“ _Allergic_ ,” he wheezes slowly, but his eyes are streaming now. Tears pour down his face as he struggles for air that won’t go down, coughing profusely. Dean watches in horror as the rash snakes its way along his neck and up the side of his face.

“Oh my god! What the... fuck do I do? What do you need me to do?” Dean is properly panicking now. He can’t think straight.

 

Aidan crawls forward and flaps at the orange box under the kitchen worktop. Dean yanks it out and throws off the lid. Aidan tries to look through the contents but between the coughing and retching he can barely hold himself up.

“Black... pouch... whitecross.”

Black pouch, white cross. Dean repeats the mantra to himself as he flings the useless items aside, finding what he is looking for towards the bottom of the box.  He unzips it and a handful of pre-loaded syringes fall out.

“Aid, what are these? I don’t know what to do.”

“Epi... epipen. ‘ere,” Aidan gasps and grabs at one; fumbling with the lid but his weak hands scrabble uselessly at it. The rest of his body falls to the floor with a thud as his hands and knees give out beneath him. 

“Uhh. ‘Structions. Dean.”

 

Dean is wide-eyed in horror as he snatches a syringe up from the floor. He peers at the unfamiliar instructions in the dim light.

“Oh god, Aid; I... can’t you do it?” he pleads.

Aidan doesn’t answer. He’s unconscious on the floor, his lips an eerie grey-blue. Air is barely sliding down his throat now. All Dean can hear is his high-pitched wheeze and he wants to scream.

 

“Aidan!”

He hurriedly reads the instructions one more time, and flips the black lid off the syringe. His hands tremble as he jabs it into Aidan’s thigh through his trousers. He holds it, then throws it aside as he rubs the adrenaline into Aidan’s muscle.

“No, no, _nonono_. Aid, wake up. Fucking hell, please wake up. Wake up. Please just -”

 

Dean’s eyes are screwed shut but there’s water up his nose and water in his chest. He knows he’s taken in too much, that his lungs are crumbling inside him like ash. A high-pitched buzz rips through his ears. It’s dark, but he sees Lee, glassy-eyed and pissed off with him for being so weak; and Aidan next to him, blue-lipped and shaking his head in disappointment.

“All you had to do was breathe, Dean.”

_Breathe, Dean._

 

“Dean.”

His eyes fly open and meet Aidan’s, pained and red but focused and very much alive.

“Oh my God, Aid. You’re... you’re alright. I’m sorry; I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I didn’t know...” Dean says it over and over again under his breath, as if somehow it might make it all better.

Aidan strings together some incoherent sentences and spits out a mouthful of drool, before rasping, “ ’s ok, Dean, ‘s not your fault. Uhh!”

He gasps hard, but the awful sound he’s making subsides and Aidan is left groaning on the floor clutching at his stomach.

 

Dean rocks back on his knees, stunned into silence. He could have killed him. Dean could have literally just killed him. What the fuck just happened? Aidan could have died right there on the floor. All he can do is watch him, like he’s in slow motion, covering his own mouth with his palm.

Is this what Dean had looked like, while he was desperately trying to breathe?

Is this what Aidan had felt when Dean was dying on the jetty? When he watched his brother drown?

No wonder it wrecked him. Dean feels like he’s been torn open.

 

Aidan points to the medical box with a swollen, heavy hand.

“Can you... Nff. Benadryl.”

Dean forces himself to focus. He quickly locates the packet and hands it to Aidan.

“Feelin’ a bit weak here, Deano. Can you get 'em out?” he begs.

 

Aidan looks absolutely smashed. His face still sports the angry red rash, but the skin beneath it is white now. His eyes are bloodshot from coughing. His voice is still weak but to Dean’s relief he looks a little brighter; jittery, almost.

“God, are you ok? It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry. It all happened so fast... I didn’t know what to do.”

“Donn... Don’t, Dean; not your fault. Should’ve told you. It just didn’t come up. Not normally this bad,” Aidan murmurs.

“Can you get up? Do you want help?”

“Give me a minute. We gotta go. Argh.” Aidan scratches at his face as he frowns in discomfort. 

“Go?”

“Hospital,” Aidan pants.

“But,” Dean wails, “It’s an hour and a half away! How are we going to... Can you fly?”

 

Despite being ill, Aidan still manages to throw Dean such a look of contempt that it actually gives him a bit of hope. Obviously his Aidan is still in there somewhere.

“Ok, so that’s a no. Why the fuck isn’t there any fucking phone signal? I guess... I guess I can carry you? Do you think you can manage?”

Aidan groans but his expression says he knows they have no choice.

“’m sure I can walk,” he mumbles.

“And I’m sure you’re the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met,” Dean retorts. 

Leaving Aidan on the floor, he scrambles up the ladder to grab the rest of their clothes. When he returns, Dean takes his arms and pulls him gently up to sitting. He carefully helps Aidan dress and ties the laces of his boots.

“What do you need?”

“Take those,” Aidan sits hunched over, his stomach obviously still paining him. “Might happen again.”

 

“Again?” Dean’s voice trembles with fright as he shoves the pouch of adrenaline in his pocket. He can’t. He can’t watch all that again.

“Yeh. Epi only lasts ten minutes, maybe... The other stuff will help but won’t kick in for a while yet.” Aidan’s voice is still raw. Dean crouches next to him and sees that his now-pale face is covered with a sheen of sweat.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look so good.”

“’S just the adrenaline. Makes me feel... uhh. Hungover, but like everything’s really bright. Makes my heart beat...” He takes Dean’s hand and places it on his chest where Dean can feel it pumping almost out of his skin. Dean cups his face with his hand and presses a kiss onto his damp forehead.

“Ok. If you’re sure. Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

 

* * *

 

The walk is awful. Truly, appallingly awful. Dean has no idea how they make it to the car. At first, Aidan had managed to walk, then stumble, until Dean had to actually piggyback him, trembling under the unaccustomed weight of the almost listless man. After about twenty minutes Aidan’s cough had resumed, barking in Dean’s ear; and he had groaned so dejectedly, croaking, “Stop!” that Dean felt his heart crack with the agony in his voice.

Dean deposited him on a boulder, his shoulders heaving with the effort of carrying Aidan, cursing the day spent hauling heavy armfuls down the hill; but it was clear that Aidan was flagging fast. The scraping wheeze had started again and Dean felt himself slipping back into abject panic; his chest as tight as Aidan’s and a dark blur fogging the edges of his vision.

 

Somehow, in the midst of all this, Aidan had managed to remain calm enough for the both of them.

“Gimme ‘nother one, I’ll do it.”

Dean winced as Aidan jabbed the needle into his leg, but the relief came quicker this time. As soon as Aidan had felt strong enough Dean hauled him back up. He wasn’t sure that Aidan should have even been upright, but he didn’t see that they had a choice. He kept telling himself that at any moment they’d stumble across bloody Blister Bill. The hikers can’t have been that much further ahead of them, and Dean was going as fast as he could. If he could just have reached them then they’d have been able to manage much better; but to his dismay the couple were nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

“Aid? What now? Should I call an ambulance?”

Dean lowers Aidan as gently as he can next to his car as he gropes for his keys.  

Aidan looks completely spaced out now. “Jus’ drive, drive fast.”

He goes to open the passenger door, but thinks better of it and bundles Aidan onto the back seat, lying across the leather.

“Hang on, alright love?” he whispers as he hurriedly tightens the buckle around Aidan’s middle.

 

The sour smell of puke rises in his nostrils and he steps on the accelerator as hard as he can.

 

* * *

 

The hospital is a blur for Dean. He realises he’s been running on almost as much adrenaline as Aidan, and now that it’s wearing off he feels sick and disoriented. The staff ask him questions but he doesn’t know most of the answers. It reminds him too much of being underwater. His head hurts and their voices echo painfully in his ears. They’re a little surprised that they’ve made it so far, that Aidan has managed the journey; and he is whisked away for treatment, leaving Dean alone with his churning thoughts. He waits in what seems like endless suspense, but eventually he is allowed to see him.

 

Despite his size, Aidan looks small and lost in the hospital bed.

 _Look what you did_ , Dean thinks. He tries to swallow but a guilty lump is stuck in his throat.

Aidan, though, only looks wearily relieved to see him. He’s been pumped full of medication, and the doctor tells Dean that although he’s past the worst he needs to stay for a few hours for observation. Dean sinks into the chair in the corner and tries to find a smile, but it won’t come. Aidan falls swiftly into a heavy sleep, but Dean can’t calm himself until he’s taken Aidan’s hand in his own and pressed it to his mouth. Warm skin, his heart beating steadily underneath. He rolls the heavy hand against his cheek and bites back his tears. After a while Dean finds his eyes closing too, drifting off with the steady tide of Aidan’s breathing in his ears. 

 

* * *

 

Dean comes round to find Aidan sitting upright on the edge of the bed in conversation with a doctor.

He looks dejectedly at the paper bag in his hand.

“Do I have to take it?”

“For a week, yes.” The doctor runs him through the reasons why she’s prescribed his medication, and starts on the lengthy list of possible side effects, but Aidan just mutters, “Yeah. I’ve taken it a few times already.”

“Well then Mr. Turner, you’re good to go. You’ve already had a good dose of the Prednisone for now. Supervision for twenty-four hours, ok? Any recurring problems, just come back.” She looks at Dean and he nods thoroughly.

 

* * *

 

Dean blinks at the dark road through the wet windshield. He watches Aidan out the corner of his eye. The other man rests his head against the cold window, unmoving as he watches the rain snake its way down the glass. Dean clears his throat.

“Aid?”

Aidan doesn’t answer.

“Aidan. I’m... I’m sorry, alright? God, I feel awful...”

“’s not that. Don’t feel like that. It’s fine, I’m fine. Just tired,” he mumbles into the dark.

Dean nods but he isn’t convinced. Aidan doesn’t seem himself at all, which is obviously to be expected, Dean thinks; but Aidan seems sad more than anything and it’s leaving him feeling confused.

“I didn’t know. You told me you were allergic to latex, not kiwis.”

Aidan sighs.

“Both, as it happens. I forgot to mention it. It’s not normally a problem. I don’t usually have to dodge swarms of wild kiwifruit,” he explains gruffly.

Dean kills the engine outside Aidan’s dark house and walks him to the door, despite Aidan’s insistence that Dean should head home to bed given that it’s now past 4am.

Aidan pats his pockets but groans.

“I left my key.”

He rings the bell, then thinks better of it and knocks. A light flickers on in the upper window and after a brief pause the latch rattles and Graham opens the door, barefoot and clad in striped boxers. He looks sleepily from Aidan to Dean and back again.

“Aid?” he starts.

Aidan shuffles forward, hanging his head but Graham stops him with his hand lightly splayed on Aidan’s chest, moving it upwards to lift Aidan’s chin.

“Thought you weren’t coming back ‘til... Jesus Christ. What happened to you?”

“Kiwi,” he mutters, not meeting Graham’s gaze.

Graham looks sharply at Dean.

“The fruit, not me...” Dean begins defensively, but Graham cuts in, “Yes, I know what he bloody well means.”

He looks over Aidan’s mournful expression and the fading rash across his face.

“You been to hospital?”

“Yeah,” Aidan sighs.

Graham narrows his eyes.

“What did they give you?”

“Same as last time. Already had some.”

“Not again. Fuck’s sake. Come on then.”

Graham moves to the side and ushers Aidan past. He treads heavily up the stairs, leaving Dean standing on the doorstep without a backwards glance.

“Wait... What’s the problem with Pred... Pred... whatever it’s called? He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?”

“No thanks to you, no doubt. It’s none of your concern,” Graham growls. He takes the door in his hand and motions for Dean to go. “He’ll call you.”

“Hey!” Dean cries indignantly, and jams his foot in between the door and the frame. “Look. I don’t know what your problem is with me, but I haven’t done anything wrong. Honestly? From the moment you met me you’ve been a real prick. I’m his friend, alright? He can spend time with whoever he likes. He could’ve...”

_Died tonight?_

Dean violently pushes the though away.

“Clearly there’s something going on here that you aren’t telling me. Don’t I at least get to see that he’s alright?”

 

Graham sighs and Dean sees him soften a little. He levels him with a stare.

“I don’t have anything against you, Dean. You seem nice enough. And I can see that you and Aidan...” he scratches his head. “It’s just that I’ve told you already, he’s more fragile than he seems. Things like this, they can’t happen. That stuff they’ve given him,” he gestures to the dark stairs behind him, “It changes him. Makes him... Christ. Moody. Let’s just say it usually stirs up some bad memories.”

 

Dean goes to tug the door wider but Graham stops him.

“ _Leave it,_ Dean. It’s obvious that you care. But so do I. And I’m telling you that he wouldn’t be pleased about you seeing him the way he is going to be. I’m assuming he still doesn’t know?” He whispers furiously.

Dean drops back and shakes his head.

“I told you I wouldn’t tell him.”

“Not that, you idiot,” Graham hisses. “Does he know that you love him?”

Dean’s mouth falls open.

“Well then. Now isn’t a good time for you to be telling him. Like I said. He’ll call you. Goodnight.”

And with that, the door closes firmly in his face and Dean is left standing in the charcoal glow of the street, wondering if he is always going to be the last one to know anything.


	15. Atelphobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atelphobia (n.) The fear of not being good enough.
> 
> In which Dean worries, and the boys finally have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking such a long break!  
> I had to go abroad unexpectedly and life has thrown some fairly huge curveballs lately so I haven't had time to work on this. Hopefully I can make up for it!
> 
> I felt it was time the lads had a little talk to set the record straight, so this chapter is pretty quiet, but I think necessary. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone as always for you incredible comments, kudos and for reading. It's so touching that you're taking the time to leave such lovely in-depth observations and feedback as you are. x

Dean fishes in his pocket for his phone. He tucks it between his ear and shoulder as he hangs up his dust mask and flicks the sawdust out of his hair.

_You have no new messages._

His nose crinkles in annoyance as he frustratedly throws it on to the bench, following it down with his elbows and sinking his chin into his grubby palms. It’s been days. Days and days; and still Aidan hasn’t called. Dean is seriously worried now. Not only about Aidan’s health - although he likes to assume that even Graham might have taken his head out of his ass and told him if he’d taken a turn for the worse - but about the state of their fragile relationship.

He splashes water on his face at the basin in the corner and studies himself in the small mirror. He barely recognises himself at the moment. He's more lined, more tired-looking than he used to be, even when he's well-rested. He rubs his thumb along his fading scar and wonders what Aidan actually sees in him.

He’s hacked off with his own pessimism. Where has his self-confidence gone? There'd been a time when he'd not have even given any of this a second thought. Gone round to Aidan's and demanded Graham let him in, to hell with what he'd been told. At the very least he'd have picked up the phone, called and called until Aidan picked up.

But now, since Lee died...

He screws up his face and wonders if that's entirely true. If he's being honest he'd have to say his confidence had left him before that. Dean would’ve described himself as happy, chilled out, relaxed. Fun. There'd been something about Lee's cool charismatic nature, a kind of charming chutzpah which pulled people in and made him the effortless centre of attention, that made Dean shrink back a little, made him lose his voice; made him feel inadequate. It had been easier, kicking back and letting Lee make their decisions; but now it's up to him and he finds himself worrying about everything.

 

No matter which way he tries to look at it, Dean practically killed Aidan. It’s not the smoothest gesture he’s ever made. What if Aidan doesn’t want to see him anymore, but can’t bring himself to tell him? Dean is pretty sure he'd be pissed if anyone had put him through half of what he's thrown at Aidan.

Not only that, but maybe Aidan is having cold feet now that things had gotten a little more serious between them. Had Dean been too needy? Pushed him too hard, too fast? It had only been the weekend before the disastrous trip that he’d thrown himself on Aidan, and even then the other man had asked that they take things slowly; which Dean supposes they haven’t, exactly.

Or maybe, Dean wonders; maybe it's just the opposite. Dean takes sex seriously but maybe Aidan doesn’t – what had Eva said about his bedroom habits? He racks his brain but draws a blank. Maybe Aidan had thought it would be a laugh but now he’s moved on. 

 

_No._

He shakes his head to rid himself of the ridiculous thought. He knows Aidan better than that and he's nothing if not good-hearted. He feels bad for even entertaining the idea.

He’s seen the way Aidan looks at him. Noticed the way he can’t help but reach out and touch Dean, hands flitting across his skin; needing to be in contact as often as he can, like if he lets go Dean might evaporate.

Aidan's face in the hospital when Dean walked in to see him. He knows relief when he sees it.

 

He can't be certain, but he'd take a guess that Aidan doesn't hold hands with everyone as he unravels the night sky. He knows that Aidan's little philosophical insights are his awkward way of showing Dean that he matters. He is sure that whatever they were building up to – whatever they _have_ , is more than just a meaningless fling. The more he thinks about, the more he realises it was Aidan making the moves last weekend.

Little touches while they flew.

_I missed you._

The way Aidan's eyes had flashed with arousal and affection as he'd pulled Dean down on to the dusty floor.

So why won’t he call?

 

He hits the mirror with the heel of his palm, frustrated at himself and his damn negativity.

 _Sort_ _yourself out, O’Gorman_.

He kicks the studio door shut behind him as he heads inside to grab his camera and car keys. Anything to take his mind off the silent phone in his pocket and the gnawing hole in his heart.

 

* * *

 

But Dean rips himself up in the small hours too. He thinks of the way all he could do when Aidan was unconscious on the floor was descend into a panic attack. How useless he’d been. It had been Aidan that had snapped him out of it, when he’s the one that should have been keeping cool and calm and focused. Aidan must be so annoyed with him, with his weakness.

 

What exactly is he expecting from Aidan anyway? He's under no obligation to get in touch with Dean. It's not like they're officially dating. Maybe it’s _him_ that isn’t ready for this. Now that he’s been forced to have a little breathing space, what with Aidan’s radio silence; he worries that maybe he has jumped in too quickly. Is he making this out to be something it’s not? Has he just found a target for his loneliness? Was he too eager to fill the void?

He winds Lee’s silver chain around his fingers, a comforting habit now. It had only been a few weeks ago that the idea of being with someone else had been entirely unbearable.

 

Lee would think it was amusing, Dean’s anxiety over Aidan. The way he’s probably reading far too much into everything. He’d say Aidan is scruffy, rough around the edges. He’d laugh at the way Dean had chased him like a puppy before he even realised what he was doing. At the constant air of disaster that seems to follow him around when it comes to spending time with Aidan. He’d disprove of Aidan’s table manners, and the way he ties up his hair; but he is sure he’d have liked him all the same.

He knows what Richard would say, too, despite the fact that Dean hasn't yet told Richard the entire truth about what he feels for Aidan. He’d say that Dean should stop enjoying beating himself up about all this and stop letting his imagination run away with itself, wallowing in every negative scenario under the sun. He’d tell him to get hold of himself and go and get what he wants. 

Dean sighs. Richard, in his measured, rational way; is always right. And if Lee was here laughing, then he’d not be in this position.

He’d also never have met Aidan.

The thought leaves him feeling deflated and strangely hollow.

 

He falls asleep just as dawn splits the sky, Graham’s parting shot echoing around his head.

_Does he know that you love him?_

 

* * *

 

It’s another day before Dean caves in and sends him a message.

 

_11.54am I’m worried about you, Aid. I'm sure you're busy but if you've got time just let me know you’re ok?_

Dean counts twenty-three agonising hours until he gets his reply. His phone pings and his heart leaps when he sees Aidan’s name on the screen.

 

_10.47am Sorry mate. Haven’t been feeling well. Want to grab a bite?_

Aidan, the king of textual brevity. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Dean beams at the small screen. Aidan wants to see him. He just hopes it’s not to break it off. He taps out a reply. There’s so much he wants to say, but it can wait.

 

_9.49am Glad to hear you’re feeling better. Sounds great. Rudy’s at 1?_

 

* * *

 

Dean hurries down the street to the café. He’s late. Only a few minutes, but he’s worried that Aidan won’t have waited around for him. As he turns the corner, he’s relieved to see the other man sloping casually against the wall outside.

“God, ‘m sorry. I got caught up on a phone call...”

He stops himself. He wants to reach out and take Aidan’s hand, grab him into a hug; but he still feels so unsure of himself. He’s struck with just how deeply he has missed him. He's spent maybe 90 hours in Aidan's company, but already spending time away from him makes Dean feel like he's drinking from an empty cup.

Aidan gives a small smile.

"No worries. I’m not in a hurry.”

 

Dean moves a little closer and really looks at him now. Aidan wears a beanie despite the warmth of the afternoon but there’s no escaping the fact that underneath it he looks exhausted. His eyes are dark-ringed, his face pale; and he looks gaunt, like he’s lost weight since Dean has last seen him. His beard is gone and Aidan is almost clean-shaven. He’s desperate to ask how he is, but he doesn’t want to scare him off.

Aidan gestures to the door.

“Shall we...?”

Dean simply nods and follows him in.

 

It heartens Dean to see that at least Aidan polishes off his pulled pork double grilled cheese in record time before starting to pick at Dean’s leftovers. He tugs his beanie off and Dean gasps involuntarily.

“Aid, your hair!”

“Oh. Yeah.” Aidan winces and rakes a hand worriedly through his short-cut curls. “I got a bit annoyed with it. Seemed like a good idea at the time. It’ll take some getting used to, hey?”

“Nah, not at all. I like it.”

And Dean really does. He wants to lean over and touch it. It makes Aidan look younger but doesn’t do anything to disguise his exhausted appearance.

Aidan smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

Dean knows he should say something. They’ve been making small talk easily enough but neither of them has addressed the elephant in the room.

“I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you to call, Aid. I know Graham said I should. It’s just that... Jesus, I was so worried about you. You were so ill when I left you and then I didn’t hear anything and I just-”

“It’s my fault, Deano: I’m the one that should be apologising.” Aidan shakes his head as if he’s annoyed at himself. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I haven't even thanked you for everything you did to help. I should've called but... It hasn’t been the best week. I know that’s not a good enough excuse. I haven’t really slept...” He bites his lip. “Thing is - I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”

“Why in hell wouldn’t I want to see you?”

“Cos... Well. I mean we started stuff and it all got interrupted by those fucking walkers and we should’ve picked up where we left off but then the whole thing happened and you had to see me all... ach, it’s embarrassing, isn’t it? I guess I just thought I’d messed everything up. And I vaguely remember throwing up in your car...”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah, that did happen. Thank god for wipe clean seats, eh?” he jokes lamely. 

 

Aidan continues like he hasn’t heard.

“And I know after, when you were driving me back to Graham's – you were trying so hard but I just... couldn’t. I had nothing left. It's hard for me to explain but with the allergy, every time that happens... it scares the crap out of me, Dean. It just sorta’ leaves me in shock. And then all the medication and the hospital, it always makes me feel so tired and spaced out. I can’t remember it properly but I’m sure I was probably being really out of order. I mean I could have at least found it in myself to talk to you, after you carried my ass out of there. I thought maybe I’d pissed you off and that you’d not want to see me again.”

Dean can't quite believe what he's hearing.

"You’re an idiot, you know that? You were nothing like out of order. You know what happened last week was my fault, not yours. I thought... I thought you’d hate me for putting you through it.”

 

Dean’s looked it up, of course; what happened to Aidan. Anaphylactic shock, the doctor had said. He’d read all the side effects. Made sense of what happened. When he’d looked up the medication that Aidan had mentioned he’d closed the web page again with an aching heart.

_Anger. Sadness. Mania. OCD. Depression. Mood swings..._

No wonder Aidan hadn’t wanted to see him. He realises it must be much worse for him, given his past and how recently the anniversary of his family's passing had been.

 

“So you were waiting for me to call, and I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again. We’re doing this all wrong, aren’t we?” Aidan asks quietly, fiddling with the edge of the table.

“Yeah, I think we just might be.”

Dean looks at the empty plates in front of him and he knows he is going to have to think of something from stopping Aidan from walking out the door, because it feels like he just might not come back.

“Do you want to do something?” he blurts. 

Aidan looks at him and sighs sadly.

“Honestly? I’m just really tired.”

Dean pushes down his disappointment, a bitter ball in his chest.

"Oh. No, of course. That’s fine. I bet you are. You should-”

“Can we maybe just go back to yours?”

Dean wasn’t expecting it and it leaves him mute for a second while his brain catches up with his mouth. 

“I mean we don’t have to, if you don't want to. Just that it's closer, and I was kind of hoping to spend a bit lon-”

Dean doesn't think twice as he scrapes his chair back and signals for the bill.

"Hell yes!"

 

* * *

 

Aidan strolls slowly round Dean’s room as Dean hurriedly kicks the pile of clothes from the floor into the wardrobe; admiring the wall of black and white photos, running his eyes over the shelving.

“Toys?” Aidan grins almost gleefully, raising his eyebrow at Dean’s beloved Star Wars memorabilia.

“They’re not toys, thanks; that’s a highly prized collectible-”

“Toy,” finishes Aidan.

“You know nothing, Turner.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but it’s nice to see that Aidan is still capable of taking the piss. He quickly rubs the pads of his fingers over the silver chain on his bedside table before slipping it into the drawer.

 

He sinks down on to the bed, and because there’s nowhere else to go Aidan sits gently down next to him. Dean feels more like a teenager than a fully-fledged thirty-something adult. The tiny space between them rolls like an ocean and he has no idea how to cross it; but then Aidan turns to him and his arms are around him and Aidan's voice tremors across his ear.

"Do you want this? You and me?"

And just like that, Aidan closes the void. Transforms all his doubting into a simple question.

Yes or no.

It's an epiphany for Dean, the simplicity of it.

_Was it always that easy?_

Dean digs his fingers into Aidan's sharp collarbones.

"Yeah. Yes. More than anything."

Aidan pulls back a little and smiles more brightly than he has in ages.

"Good. Me too."

 

Aidan gives Dean's chest a light shove and guides him backward onto the mattress, gently rolling his body on top of Dean. He shuffles down so his head is level with Dean's navel and he melts - Aidan positively melts into him. He presses his lips to Dean's lowest rib. There's no lust in it. It's just need; it's soft and to Dean it means everything and he feels a bit like he might cry.

Aidan wriggles his upper body a little to the side and nestles his head into the arch of Dean's torso.

Dean gives a small cough and tries to pull himself together, desperate to ignore the heat he can already feel building in his groin.

“So. Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

“Mmm. You pick.” Aidan mumbles into Dean’s ribcage.

Dean flicks on the screen, thanking himself silently for having the controls on his phone and not having to move. Seeing as Aidan is face down and not paying attention he figures that a bit of 80’s sci-fi won’t go amiss.

Aidan is asleep by the time the opening credits have finished rolling, and he sleeps through the next film too. Aidan’s body is heavy on his legs but he doesn’t mind, the pressing weight a kind of comforting anchor. He watches the tic-tic of skin grazed by five o’clock shadow under Aidan’s jaw. Finally having him so close after a week apart is driving Dean crazy. His stiff cock juts into the hollow of Aidan’s sternum, and as much as he’d like to do something about it he only hopes it doesn’t wake him up. Halfway into the third movie, though, Dean has pins and needles and is desperate for a pee; so he squirms out from underneath, leaving Aidan curled into the duvet.

 

He kicks around in the living area for a while, tidying up the mess he’d left earlier in the day before Richard comes home. He flicks on a rugby match but he can’t concentrate on the game. He feels like he should let Aidan rest, but the pull of having him there in the next room is too strong so he quietly slips back into his room, strips down to his boxers and tucks himself against Aidan’s body.

 

Dean is a little alarmed at how much Aidan seems to be sleeping. He hasn’t moved since Dean left him nearly two hours ago now, quiet breaths escaping just-parted lips. 

Dean watches him with bemused affection. Despite having chopped it all off, Aidan’s hair still has a mind of its own; messy from sleep, standing on end in tufts. The cut takes away some of his moody, mysterious edge and Dean can’t help but think he looks quite sweet, almost clean-cut. Dean feels the urge to take care of Aidan rising in his chest.

_What happened to him this week?_

What is it exactly that Aidan has been going through that’s left him so wrecked?

He buries his nose into the back of Aidan’s neck and inhales, breathing in the scent that is already becoming comforting and familiar. It strikes him as vaguely ridiculous: just a handful of weeks ago this total stranger had yanked him out of a freezing lake just seconds before Dean signed out for good, and now here he is sleeping in his bed.

 

Aidan stirs, making a noise of protest at finding himself awake, but rolls over when he realizes that Dean is behind him and manages a semi-comatose smile, hugging a pillow into his chest.

“Stop staring at me,” he mutters without opening his eyes.

“Hey,” Dean laughs. “Sorry.”

“D’I fall asleep?”

 “You could say that. It’s pretty late, past ten. Don’t you need to go? Won’t Graham be sending out a search party?”

“Huh. I’m a big boy, I’m allowed to stay out. And anyway, he’s not worried. Told him I was with you.” Aidan finally opens his eyes and squints at Dean in the unwelcome lamp light.

“And he was alright with that?” Dean asks sceptically.

“Oh yeah. I think he likes you.”

Dean nearly chokes.

“He said you put up a good fight on the doorstep the other day. I am really sorry; you know – for just walking off and leaving you at the door. My head was all over the place.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Nah. I don’t have to take that stuff anymore. I'm fine now. It’s all good now, right?”

Dean shrugs in acceptance.

“Oh. And I think Graham may have guessed about, ahh...” Aidan gestures into the small space between himself and Dean.

“Yeah, I gathered. He’s not stupid, is he?” Dean muses.

“Oh no,” Aidan confirms. “You’ll get nothing past Graham.”

 

Dean reaches out his hand and rubs his thumb along Aidan’s temple. Aidan’s eyes flutter closed again. The question just pops out of Dean’s mouth before he’s really thought about it.

 

“Why _are_ you here?”

Aidan's eyes fly open and he creases his brow in sleepy confusion.

“I thought... you wanted...”

Dean sits up and balls the covers up in his hands.

“I mean, with _me_? Why _do_ you want to be with me, Aid?”

Dean didn’t mean to ask it but he needs to quell the unease he’s been feeling all week.

 

Aidan shuffles up to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He turns to face Dean but Aidan doesn’t look him in the eye, choosing to study his mouth instead. Dean finds himself prickling with arousal as Aidan’s tongue flits over his lips, wishing he knew what the other man was thinking about.

 

“You know; I’ve been asking myself this a lot lately. Not about the guy-girl thing, right. None of that makes any difference to me, though honestly I was a little confused in the beginning. It caught me a little unexpected, but most of the best things in life do, right?” He clears his throat. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t jumping into something that you didn’t really want. I mean when I met you, you were still grieving Lee so hard...”

Aidan looks around the room nervously, like he’s hyper-aware that the last person Dean was in this bed with was his former boyfriend.

“And rightly so. I wanted to be your mate as soon as we started talking. I hadn’t bargained on anything else. But I don’t know, you intrigued me, Dean. I had no idea I wanted you until you showed me how much I did. I've never been attracted to a guy before, but here I am. I only asked to go slowly to give you some time, to make sure you weren’t making...” he motions vaguely towards himself, “a mistake. It would have been easy for you to confuse missing Lee with feeling something for me. But I think you know what you're doing, and so... I don’t want to wait. Is that selfish? Do you think you might just want to... be with me? I don’t mean going around yelling it from the rooftops or whatever. I think we should just keep it for us, for now. But I don’t want to have to keep on guessing if I’m going to get to see you again.

“Not seeing you this week has been fucking awful, really. I know it’s only my own fault. I did almost call you, so any times. I just... It’s just that you make me _feel_ good. Every day that I’ve spent with you has been so much _better_ just for having you in it. Yeah, even the first one,” he adds to counter Dean’s dubious look. “Every time you’ve shown up, whether I was expecting it or not, I’ve just been happier. I can be myself around you, you know? And every day that I’ve spent without you...”

He fiddles with the bed cover, a pink flush spreading across his cheeks.

“And you know, you’re funny and you’re interesting and generous... and all your awkward is frankly fucking hilarious. And uhh... You're pretty hot, as it happens. Do I need to go on?”

Dean blushes too as he chuckles. It’s almost as if Aidan is blossoming in front of him. His talkative side is coming out, like he’s losing his earlier inhibition.

Aidan looks down sheepishly as he adds, “That photo you gave me for my birthday. I never got to thank you properly. I’ve always known it was beautiful out there, the lake. That’s why I bought the land, what keeps me going back. But the way you took that picture... You showed me something so new and it completely took my breath away. Like I was seeing it for the first time. I fell in love with it all over again. And I didn’t realise I could look so...” He links the fingers of his left hand loosely through Dean’s as he trails off and finally raises his gaze to look straight through Dean, dark eyes sparkling in the low light.

“That’s what I want, Dean. I want to be with someone that sees the world the way you see it. Sees... sees me the way you see me.”

 

Dean doesn’t remember a kiss like this one. He knots his fists in Aidan’s shirt and pulls him in with a ferocious urgency that comes out of nowhere. His lips collide with Aidan’s, their noses crushed together; but he doesn’t care, he only cares about this kiss and this wild feeling and the fact that he nearly let himself walk away from this and this tongue that drags across his own deep in Aidan’s mouth, Dean desperately exploring as if it’s their first time. He almost can’t breathe, faces smashed together as they are; but he doesn’t care about that either, and he wonders if they have enough air between them to stay like this forever.

He wants Aidan to know, wants him to _know_ , that this could never be a mistake; that Dean has thought about this and him all day and all night since they’ve met. Everything Aidan has said about the way Dean makes him feel has given him such relief, such utter happiness, because he feels exactly the same way. Aidan’s sweet, hesitant concern over Dean’s state of mind just gives him something else to add to the list of things he finds irresistible about the other man.  

 

Aidan grips Dean’s jaw firmly in his hands now, and Dean’s own hands rake stripes down Aidan’s shoulders. He wants to claim him, to bring his body so close into his that every inch of his skin is on fire from touching Aidan’s. He marvels at the ability of this man to bring him to life with his mouth time after time. He could never list all the things about Aidan that light him up; but he wants all of it. Aidan gives him hope, makes him into himself again and then somebody more; and it feels like they are starting again.

Aidan groans low in his throat, his eyes screwed tightly shut; but Dean’s own are wide open and he doesn’t let go. He hooks his leg over Aidan’s and rolls him on top of himself, tangling into each other on the mattress; and Aidan works at his clothes as Dean desperately scrabbles in the bedside drawer for lube, contents flying all over the floor. Chewing gum sticks rattle on the wooden boards, and a handful of useless electric cables are thrown under the bed, knotted with a twisted silver chain.

 

Aidan looks primal, almost predatorial as he rises up onto his knees and takes the bottle from Dean’s hand.

“Can I?” he asks huskily, as he runs his free hand up the inside of Dean’s thigh.

“Nff. God yes, Aid; anything you want. Everything. All of it,” Dean gasps. 

Aidan grins slowly, almost sinfully; and experimentally moves his hand higher as Dean throws his arms up behind his head and arches his neck back, his legs spreading automatically across the crumpled sheets.

“Teach me,” Aidan whispers. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

 

Dean bites his lip, his cock twitching at the brazen but gentle demand. Aidan is looking at him so intensely, unblinking, waiting for Dean’s instruction. He looks like he’s otherworldly, like he can’t possibly belong here. The yellow light glints off his strong profile, sharp against the dark pools of his eyes thrown into shadow by the way he’s lowered his brows.

 

Dean’s been thinking it for hours, but he doesn’t tell him yet.

 

If loving Aidan were a crime, he’d serve his sentence forever.


	16. Cafuné

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cafuné (v.) Running your hands through your lover's hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is total muck n' cheese, because I just want these two to be happy for a while.  
> Short and super fluffy. 
> 
> Thank you, as ever, for your lovely comments and kudos. It's so appreciated.

“Come to a wedding with me.”

Aidan looks up.

“You know,” he says, deadpan. “It’s customary to propose first.”

Dean wonders if he will ever say anything that Aidan takes seriously, but a small part of him hopes not.

“Idiot. Nah, I’m serious though. Adam’s cousin is getting married, and I’ve said I’ll take photos during the ceremony but I’ve got the whole evening to enjoy. I just... thought you might wanna join me.”

Aidan lowers his brows down over his eyes, deep in contemplation.

“You mean, like a proper date?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. If you want it to be one.” He rubs his face nervously, beginning to wish he hadn’t asked. “I mean I do, but if you don’t, then that’s fine; we’ll just go as... mates. If you want to come at all. I don’t want what you don’t want... oh bloody hell. Look, there’ll be free food.”

Aidan smiles just about as wide as Dean has ever seen him smile.

“You had me at date.”

 

* * *

 

_5.28pm What are you wearing?_

 

Dean’s phone pings in his pocket and he is greeted with a picture message. Aidan sports a towel and little else.

 

_5.31pm I mean tonight, you prick. Might raise a few eyebrows if you show up in that._

 

_5.32pm It’s not eyebrows I’m hoping to raise. Just getting dressed be there in thirty._

 

Dean is glad his red face is hidden behind the camera, rather than being on display in front of the lens. 

 

_5.33pm P.S Can’t wait to see you either._

 

* * *

 

Dean is startled by the soft clearing of a throat directly behind him. He looks over his shoulder to find Aidan, dressed impeccably in a dark navy suit, the sharp collar of his white shirt in stark contrast with the unusually well-groomed stubble along his jawline. He’s even done something with his hair, now that it’s growing again; swept it back so that it looks a little more like Dean’s own.

“Christ. You look... you look...”

Dean is lost for words, and he can feel the embarrassing flush creep hotly across his cheeks. 

“Thanks. So do you.” He grins, and Dean sees him automatically reaching his hand out towards his own, before catching himself and shoving it quickly in his pocket instead. They’ve decided not to tell everyone, at least not tonight. It’s not their evening, after all; and it wouldn’t be fair to have people making a fuss over them and asking endless questions - because if Dean knows Adam as well as he thinks he does, then he really will – rather than the happy couple. Not that it’s going to be easy for him to keep his hands to himself either, what with Aidan looking like he’s just wandered off the pages of a fashion magazine.

“I just have to...” He holds up the camera and nods to the bride and groom, happily greeting their friends and family to the reception.

“Sure! Sure. I’ll see you later. Go do some work,” he winks.

 

* * *

 

Dean watches Aidan in conversation with Adam, his easy grace and generous smile. Adam is practically vibrating, so excited to be talking to the Irishman; making a show of introducing him to his enormous family. Dean wonders with some amusement if Adam thinks he’s in with a shot tonight. He can’t help but notice, though; that Aidan carries a tension across his shoulders when he is with others that falls away when he is with Dean. He feels such swelling pride that he is the one that Aidan can be himself with, that simply being with Dean relaxes him.

It makes him feel warm inside knowing that of all the people here tonight that he is the one Aidan is looking at, and when Aidan takes the chance to steal a glance in his direction and pull his lips into a smile that Dean knows very well the warm feeling spreads down just a little further, causing him to turn away hurriedly and get back to finishing his duties as photographer.

 

* * *

 

“You’re sexy,” Aidan giggles into Dean’s ear, draping himself across his shoulder.

“You’re drunk,” Dean laughs, as he pushes him lightly off.

“And you’re not?”

“Touché.”

Aidan takes another swig of champagne, smiling into the growing dark as Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep lungful of cooling air.

 

Dinner had been great. The wedding was a lot of fun, actually, and Dean’s ribs hurt from laughing at the raucous speeches, which had turned out to be fantastically filthy and funny. Aidan had pressed as close as he’d dared during the meal until Dean couldn’t help himself any longer, sliding a hand under the table to rest on Aidan’s thigh. Aidan had sat bolt upright like he’d been stung, and Dean quickly withdrew his hand; but seconds later Aidan had caught it back in his own and placed it firmly even higher up his leg with the smallest smirk. He’d tried to dance with everyone, not just next to Aidan; but Dean had found himself drawn back to him every time, watching the mouth-watering way his trousers hugged his thighs as he moved and laughed. Eventually, Aidan had caught his eye and inclined his head so slightly to the open door and the lantern-lit grounds of the country club beyond. Dean gunned his glass and swiped two more champagne flutes off the passing tray in front of him, wasting no time in joining Aidan in the dusky seclusion of the gardens.

 

Aidan slides a finger under the elastic of Dean’s braces and pulls him in close.

“C’mere,” he whispers.

Dean slides his body into Aidan’s, astonished as always at how well they fit together. He feels like water, taking on the shape of everything surrounding him.

Aidan has imprinted himself on to Dean. Re-formed him. Taken his old self apart atom by atom and made him into someone new, the shape of himself reflecting the outline of Aidan, absorbing his edges and folding around his long lines.

 

Aidan peppers gentle kisses along Dean’s jawline; walking his fingers up Dean’s neck, his pulse thrumming just below the tightly stretched skin.

A thumb runs lightly across his lips in an all too familiar gesture and Dean freezes.

_The thumb works its way into his mouth and he bites down on it. A honeyed southern drawl._

_“The things I could do to this mouth, baby. Just look at you.”_

The thumb glides to a stop at the corner of his mouth and then fizzing champagne lips are on his. A soft Irish murmur.

“I could kiss this mouth all night. Just look at you.”

 

Dean smiles as he comes back to himself and Aidan runs the thumb down his nose, where Dean knows it crinkles. He leans in to catch his lips in another warm kiss, the tiniest noise of contentment escaping his throat.

“Mmm. Been thinking about this all evening.”

 

Aidan’s hand slides around into the small of Dean’s back and pulls him in until their hips are kissing too. He closes his eyes and sings under his breath as his feet find their way across the music that drifts from the marquee.  

“What are you doing?” Dean chuckles as he is swept along.

“Dancing,” Aidan announces with a grin.

Dean laughs through his nose. Aidan has taken his hand in his spare and pressed it in between their chests. His cheek is so close that his stubble scrapes lightly across Dean’s. He moves slowly, liquidly; and Dean is glad he’s being held up because his knees have never felt weaker. This might just be the cheesiest, most ridiculous, most romantic thing he’s ever damn well done. Sentimental prick, he thinks to himself as Aidan whispers the words across his ear.

_...Baby, I'm yours  
And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines,  
Yours until the poets run out of rhyme  
In other words, until the end of time_ _..._

 

I love you, Dean thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

Three words will never be enough for Dean when it comes to Aidan, will never be able to describe Dean’s feelings for him in all their complexity and fragility and ferocity _._

_...Baby, I'm yours  
And I'll be yours until two and two is three,  
Yours until the mountain crumbles to the sea  
In other words, until eternity_ _..._

I love you, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

He wants Aidan to feel it instead, to know it beyond question or doubt.

 

_...Baby, I'm yours  
Till the stars fall from the sky  
Baby, I'm yours   
Till the rivers all run dry  
Baby, I'm yours_ _..._

 

I love you, he thinks, and he says it because he can’t help himself; and he says it again and again because he wants Aidan’s ears to ring with it until it’s all he can hear; Dean’s declaration of love and the sound of their feet as they trace the veins and arteries of their hearts across the dewy grass.

 

* * *

 

“I’m so glad I came.”

“I’m bloody glad you did, too,” Dean echoes, looking across at Aidan who lies on the damp ground beside him; shirt sleeves rolled up, watching stars pop into existence as he lazily smokes. More guests mill around the garden now, taking the opportunity to escape the sticky heat of the tent.  

“Although,” he adds, as he finds himself staring at Aidan’s delicious mouth, “I can’t wait to get you back home.”

“You know, I was just thinking about that.” A slow smile slides across Aidan’s face.

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, letting the anticipation build up inside himself.

“Yeah.” Aidan’s voice is hoarser now. “And I’ve decided, I don’t think I can wait that long.”

Dean sits up in surprise as his mouth runs dry.

“...oh?”

“Yeah. Want you. Here.”

“Here? Fucking hell, Aid, someone might see...”

Aidan sits up too and places his mouth over Dean’s again, slowly sucking his lower lip between his own.

“So?”

Dean whines and knows he’s done for. He’d put up more of a protest but there’s no way he wants to. He looks around hurriedly before nodding to a small clump of twilit trees just down the slope from where they’ve been lying.

 

Aidan leads and Dean follows moments later, trying his hardest to look nonchalant. He enters the dim copse and is immediately pulled flush against Aidan’s body; fierce mouth on, in his own, hands fumbling with his jacket and then tugging at his bowtie. Dean yanks handfuls of Aidan’s shirt from the back of his waistband, running his hands up and across the warmth of his back, dipping them down into his underwear, digging half-moons into his skin.

“I haven’t... I didn’t bring... supplies. Did you?” Dean pants breathlessly, and Aidan pulls away briefly, looking gutted.

“Ahh, crap. I didn’t think about that,” he frowns, but quickly gives a wolfish smile. “Never mind,” he says, as he bends down to plant one last slow kiss just below Dean’s ear, before sinking heavily to his knees in the earth and catching hold of Dean’s zipper. He eases it down almost torturously slowly, tugging Dean’s trousers around his thighs just enough; Dean watching in awe as Aidan exposes him to the cold air and looks up at him with such a bright innocence so at odds with what he obviously intends to do that it makes him whine involuntarily.

 

Aidan gives a low moan, opens up his mouth and takes in as much as he can manage. Dean gasps, arching hard into the wet heat and causing Aidan to choke. He pulls off to catch his breath, mouth obscenely pink and connected to Dean with a string of saliva. Dean’s apologizing and stroking Aidan’s hair, but he’s already diving back in even more eagerly. Dean bites his lip, willing himself not to make too much noise as Aidan slides his mouth right back around him, sinking down even further than before. He stays there still for a moment, jaw loosening, and then he swallows.

Dean’s whole body stutters.

“Oh Jesus, shit, Aid...” He fists his hands in Aidan’s hair, past caring that everyone will know exactly what he’s been doing. “You don’t have to... have to...”

Aidan pulls off, licking an agonizingly slow stripe along his length.

“Want to,” he mumbles, before flashing Dean a shit-eating grin and adding, “Any tips?”

Dean snorts.

“Don’t bite? Just... just do what you’re doing already.”

“Rodger that,” Aidan laughs, before taking Dean back down and hollowing his cheeks. Dean rolls his head back and his hips up into Aidan’s mouth, more slowly this time. He doesn’t know if it’s just the alcohol but this is so fucking exhilarating, and despite Aidan’s novice status he’s doing a bloody good job of it. He groans as Aidan flicks his tongue along the ridge underneath his head, lazily swirling his tongue up and dragging it across the slick tip. Aidan grabs Dean’s hip with his hand, pulling him in closer; palming himself through the thin fabric of his suit with the other. Dean tries his hardest to resist the urge to fuck his mouth, stretched so perfectly around his now leaking prick; but Aidan looks straight up at him with those damn eyes and it’s dirty and beautiful and Dean feels his body arch and tighten, the familiar heat building at the base of his cock.

“Nhh... Aids; wait, wait...”

Dean pushes back on Aidan’s shoulders, forcing him off with a lewd pop.

“But I want to.” Aidan stares up at him, pupils wide and black with lust.

Dean reaches down and tugs insistently at Aidan’s loosened tie.

“Uhh, no; I want to come with you.”

 

Aidan hurriedly stands up and spits into his hand, wrapping it around Dean. He strokes him lightly as Dean takes care of Aidan’s fly. A sticky trail of saliva and pre-cum dribbles from the corner of Aidan’s mouth and Dean pulls him into a crushing kiss, tasting himself on his tongue. Aidan breaks his hand away just long enough to slide his cock against Dean’s, adding more spit before gripping them both in his hot hand and working them into his fist. He widens his feet and leans into Dean to make up for the awkward height difference. Dean groans loudly and braces himself against Aidan’s shoulder, willing himself to hold off.

“Jesus... does it always feel this good?” Aidan pants.

Dean wraps his fingers around Aidan’s and pumps them faster.

“Yeah, with you, always.”

The look on Aidan’s face does for him and Dean buries his face into Aidan’s neck as he comes with a muffled cry. Aidan still works their hands over the both of them furiously, Dean screwing his eyes shut in the pleasure-pain of it. Aidan is normally pretty vocal, but Dean knows he’s fighting with himself to stay quiet; swallowing strangled gasps as his own orgasm tears through him, painting sticky stripes up the front of Dean’s shirt.

For a moment they stand in the dark shadow of the trees, breaths coming heavy and hard. Aidan leans down to rest his forehead against Dean’s, prickled with sweat. His face crinkles and he laughs; softly at first, then louder, until Dean is laughing too, but he couldn’t honestly say why.

“That,” he says, as he gently brushes a damp strand of hair back from where it has fallen across Dean’s face, “Was something else.”

 

* * *

 

“ 'The fuck are you doing in the trees?”

Dean looks alarmed as he strolls out of the undergrowth straight into Adam’s path.

“Ahh... I went for a pee?”

“There’s toilets, you know. God, what an animal,” Adam wrinkles his nose in jest.

Dean smiles weakly and hurriedly closes the final button on his jacket, hoping it’s covered the worst of the wet patch.

“Where’s Aidan?”

“I... dunno, haven’t seen him for-”

Unfortunately for Dean, Aidan chooses that precise moment to exit the cover of the trees too, brushing specks of dirt from his shirt. Adam looks at him in confusion.

“Oh, Aidan, Dean was just looking for you. What happened to your hair? You’ve got...” he trails off as his eyes widen in sudden understanding, looking between the two sheepish men.

“You are fucking KIDDING me! You absolute  _bastard!_ ” He playfully punches Dean on the arm, then grabs him into a hug. “About bloody time. Ugh,” he wrinkles his nose in displeasure as he lets Dean go again, “On second thoughts, I don’t know what you’ve been up to in there. Or more like, I know all too well.”

Aidan scrubs at the back of his neck in embarrassment and tries to wrangle his hair into some semblance of order.

“Yeah, well. Surprise,” Dean admits bashfully. Noticing Aidan’s discomfort, he adds, “Look Ads, this is all kind of... new for us. Do you think we could just maybe keep this one quiet for a bit?”

Adam throws his hands up.

“ _Absolutely_. Understood. Secret is safe with me.”

Aidan looks unconvinced but Dean just shakes his head with a sheepish smile.

“Yeah, ok. Remember, I know where you live.”

Adam mimes zipping his lips shut as he winks at Aidan, before skipping gleefully off back to the party.

“So not quite so secret as we’d hoped?”

“Ahh, you’d be surprised. I don’t think Adam’ll say anything, actually. He gets it.”

Dean feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

 

_11.17pm TELL ME EVERYTHING! Ads x_

 

He rolls his eyes and hastily stuffs the phone away.

“What do you say we take this back to mine?”

“On one condition.”

Aidan takes his hand and looks at him with such intensity, such a sense of urgency that Dean is suddenly worried about what he might say.

“Y... yes?” he stammers, his palms prickling as he nervously awaits Aidan’s answer.

“We’re getting a kebab on the way home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Aidan sings is Baby, I'm Yours by The Arctic Monkeys.


	17. Kilig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kilig (n.) The rush or inexplicable joy one feels after seeing or experiencing something romantic

Dean learns the little things that make Aidan.

He likes his coffee scalding hot and bitter, but constantly leaves his sweet tea to go cold.

He frowns when he’s thinking.

When he was a kid he wanted to be a cowboy.

He flits seamlessly between nonstop chatter and silent introspection.

He once lost four teeth when he fell over the handlebars of his bike and used to spit water through the gap at his classmates.

The only way Dean can get him to stop pinching all his food is to cover it in Vegemite.

He’s supposed to wear his glasses a lot more, but he’s shy about the way they make him look so he just gets headaches instead.

He likes to watch Dean’s mouth when Dean talks.

He is twenty-nine years old.

The only fluent Irish he knows is swear words.

He never seems to stop moving his hands; fussing at his face, his hair, his stubble; jamming them in pockets; hugging his knees, his chest; running them across Dean’s back or scratching them through the hairs along Dean’s forearm; spinning chaotic orbits with them through the air as he talks.

He’d love to get a dog one day.

Sometimes he laughs in his sleep.

He curls his toes when he comes.

 

* * *

 

“What are you wearing?”

Aidan looks down at his chest, freshly dressed after his shower.

“A t-shirt?”

“My t-shirt, to be precise. It doesn’t exactly fit you, Aids.”

Aidan pulls a ridiculous pose, a golden band of skin clearly visible between the top of his shorts and the hem of the shirt. Dean stares at the sharp ridges inside his hip bones, the darkly promising shadows that draw his gaze below the waistband.

“Shows off my fabulous physique though, don’t you think?”

Dean snorts.

“And anyway,” Aidan mumbles, pulling at the fabric. “It smells nice.”

“That’s not difficult. Everything smells nicer than you.”

“Is that so?”

Aidan lunges at Dean and happy hands wrap tightly around his waist. He inhales Dean; nose pressed to his neck, tipping him off his feet and back onto the bed.

“Let’s see if we can’t bring you down to my level then.”

 

* * *

 

Dean feels Aidan slide into the bed next to him, a rustle of sheets and then cool skin against his own bed-warmed body, chest to chest and feet to feet.

“Mmm. Tha’ was a long day,” he mutters through his sleepy haze. “What time even is it?”

 

Though they’ve taken to spending every possible moment of time together, it’s still not enough for Dean. The long summer days mean that Aidan is inundated with work and has to make the most of the light, dragging himself from the bed cursing and fumbling long before the alarm shakes Dean from sleep; returning after dark starving and pink across the bridge of his nose from flying into the sun all day.

“Sorry,” Aidan whispers in between pressing kisses into Dean’s hair. “Had to make a detour.”

“Nff?”

“I’ve got something for you.”

“You’re incorrigible. Aren’t you too tired?”

“Eh? Oh! Not that... Never too tired, anyway, but no. Sit up. Hold out your hands.”

Dean shuffles up under the covers with a frown, hands propped out in front of him. He feels an object being placed across his palms, metallic and boxy.

“Ok.”

His eyes flutter open and for a second he blinks at the gift, shifting it into one hand and running his finger along the cool metal with the other.

“Aidan... where did you get this?”

"Ahh, you know. It's just something I came across. I know people.”

“I can’t take this... This is too much,” Dean mutters under his breath.

Aidan looks a little disappointed.

“I mean you don't have to keep it, if you don’t want it. I just thought about it and reckoned -”

“Are you serious?” Dean turns it over and over in his hands, happiness flooding up his chest as flashes of childhood come back to him. “I definitely _want_... I’m just not sure I deserve it. This is bloody amazing, man; I love it. I love... I love you. Where did you _get_ this? You’re not telling me you just found this lying around.”

 

It’s a Leica M4, the camera that inspired Dean to start taking pictures. The camera his Dad always used, permanently slung round his neck as he insisted on recording their ridiculous family holidays and birthdays. He remembers sitting on his knee as his Dad explained, piece by piece, what each little dial was for and showed him how to install the film. It had seemed like magic to him back then, carefully turning the rewind crank and waiting impatiently for the prints to develop in their shambles of a darkroom in the garden shed. It’s nowhere near as techy or high-spec as the equipment he uses now. Even then it had been old, practically vintage, but his Dad had insisted on keeping it while it still worked. He can practically smell the nostalgia, and just the weight of it in his hand makes his heart swell.

He’d mentioned it in passing; just a flippant comment in a long-forgotten conversation. That Aidan has not only remembered but gone out of his way to find one for him – _flown_ somewhere to get one, if Dean is interpreting Aidan’s comments correctly, properly beggars belief.

 

Aidan shrugs but smiles warmly all the same.

“For me to know. There’s film in in and everything, ready to go.”

“Why are you so good to me? I haven’t... I haven’t got you anything.”

Aidan shakes his head as he laughs.

“You’re an idiot, you know that? You,” he kisses Dean’s nose, “Have got me,” he mumbles, as he trails the kiss down the Dean’s cheek, “Everything.”

 

* * *

 

Introducing Aidan to Richard feels like some kind of turning point. They don’t spend time talking about their relationship; what it is, or isn’t. Dean wouldn’t call Aidan his boyfriend. They aren’t kids, he hasn’t needed to. It’s just always been so easy with Aidan and things have flowed so naturally between them, despite Dean’s initial internal turmoil. But inviting him tonight, formally, Richard having cooked; Aidan fidgeting with the collar of his smart shirt, bottle of wine in hand when Dean greets him at the door – it feels like they’re making some bold unspoken step.

Dean takes Aidan’s hand to stop him pulling at the buttons.

“You’re not... nervous, are you?”

“No! Yes? Look I know this was my idea, just... it feels like I’m meeting your parents.”

 

Aidan hadn’t felt right, hanging out in Richard’s house and never having actually met him. Richard tends to keep himself to himself when Dean has company, and lately he has been putting in long days and evenings at work, meaning that he’s managed to miss being introduced to Aidan every time he’s been over. He’d asked if Dean could sort something out, a casual drink, or something; but he hadn’t expected Richard to issue him with a fully-fledged dinner invitation.

“Don’t be. Richard is brilliant. He’s going to love you.”

 

And Richard does. Dean finds himself almost acting as third wheel as Aidan and Richard dissect some of the more obscure vinyls in Richard’s collection. He smiles tipsily as he watches them both across the cacophony of sauce-stained plates and half-empty glasses; one all dancing hands and excited eyes and the other full of relaxed warmth and reserved delight in being able to share his usually so well-guarded passions with someone so enthusiastic. It occurs to Dean that this – this, might just be all the happiness he’ll ever need. Richard catches his eye across the table and smiles a smile he doesn’t give out often, one he remembers best from his time at university, and he knows that he’s impressed. That Aidan has officially received the nod of Rich’s approval. Dean is acutely aware of the fleeting fragility of the moment, his two loves under one roof, made all the more beautiful because he knows how precarious life is; knows what it is to have all this snatched away.

 

* * *

 

Dean glances up from the thin sheets of wood he’s laminating. Aidan sits on the long side bench, kicking his legs as he studies a magazine. At least, Dean knows he’s pretending to look at it, because he’s been able to feel his eyes on him since he arrived half an hour ago. The way he keeps looking up and grinning to himself, watching Dean work. Aidan's been flying all morning but he'd turned up at the studio door unannounced and though Dean was ecstatic to see him, he can’t stop until he’s finished here.

 

That Aidan is here on a rare afternoon off is thrilling and Dean is annoyed with the deadlines he’s set for himself, but Aidan isn’t making it easy for him to get it done, his furtive looks making him feel self-conscious. He drifts back to his work, but it isn’t long before he feels those eyes on him again and he sends half his tools crashing to the floor as he cocks his head at him in resignation.

“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask?”

Aidan looks up innocently from the reading he’s buried his head back in.

“Hmm?”

“I can tell there’s something going on with you. You look like a kid with a secret.”

“Me?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Nah, was just talking to bloody Santa Claus behind you there. Yes, you.”

Aidan wriggles down from his perch and bites his lip.

"I've got something for you."

Dean arches an eyebrow.

"Not that. Is that all you think about? Close your eyes."

He wipes his gluey hands with a smile and dutifully shuts them. He hears Aidan shuffling around, opening the door and entering the room again a few seconds later.

"Ok."

 

Dean opens his eyes and for a moment he doesn’t see anything, but then his attention is caught by a square frame resting against Aidan’s knees, and he is confronted with – himself.  He steps in slowly and lets his mouth fall open. It’s Dean, but it isn’t, it’s textural and abstract and unbelievably good.

"Christ, Aids... This is..."

Aidan looks embarrassed all of a sudden and rubs at his jaw.

“Too much? Yeah, I knew it. Shouldn’t have brought it. I don’t know what I was thinking, really; just sort of happened and then I wondered if you might like -”

"Are you kidding?" Dean asks, incredulous. “Aidan, it’s amazing. This is – really, it’s unreal.” He runs his finger gently across the thick oils, the minute detail that Aidan has meticulously captured in a way that both is and isn’t a picture of him. The tones he’s chosen, the way he’s layered it – it _feels_ like Dean as much as anything else, and the effort he must have gone to in doing this blows him away.

“I can’t believe... I can’t believe you did this for me. When did you even find the time?” He smiles breathlessly at Aidan, who slowly allows himself to grin too.

“Ahh you know. Here and there. Few late nights. You really like it?”

“Aids, this is just about the best and nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Seriously. I don’t even know what to say.”

Aidan laughs.

“Say you love me again.”

“I love you again.”

Dean is pulled into Aidan’s chest.

“Prick. Wanna hang it in the cabin? Thought it would look cool with our furniture.”

Our furniture.

Dean's heart does a flip.

_Ours._

 

* * *

 

Dean rests his clammy palms on his knees as he puffs to catch his breath.

“Alright there, old man? Want me to find you a walking stick?”

Aidan is a bright ball of energy beside him, and he practically bounces on his tiptoes as he waits for Dean to recover.

Dean flips him the finger and laughs.

“Fuck off, or you’ll be carrying me.”

Dean is still deliciously sore from the previous night. What Aidan lacks in experience he makes up for in athletic enthusiasm. By the time Aidan had crooked Dean’s knee over his shoulder and eased into him for the third time; Dean slick with saliva from his wicked, laving tongue and come that coated his thighs as it trickled from him, he’d given such a keening, gasping protest; tugging on Aidan’s hair hard enough that he had actually stopped, sitting back on his heels with a concerned look and rough hands caressing Dean’s trembling thighs. Dean had begged him not to stop then, of course, Aidan’s name spilling from his lips like a prayer, the body above him silhouetted against the cabin ceiling and Dean seeing everything in black and white. He doesn’t mind the burn. He likes the thought of having Aidan on him - in him, still; a constant silent reminder of belonging, of being allowed to know Aidan like no one else does.

“Well if you hadn’t insisted on pounding me through the mattress last night, maybe I’d be going a bit faster.”

Aidan smiles guiltily and loops his arms round Dean’s waist, leaning in for a light kiss.

“I’m sorry darlin’.” He arches his eyebrows mischievously. “Want me to kiss it better?”

His hands slide down to knead the muscular swell of Dean’s ass and Dean finds himself fizzing with arousal.

The thought of Aidan licking him open right here appeals very much to Dean. He’d spread his legs right here if he wanted him to; wanton in the warm, dry dirt.

_The things I’d do for this git._

He thinks of fucking himself onto that clever tongue, slender fingers curling inside him just _-_

“Ooh, you dirty bastard. I know exactly what you’re thinking.” Aidan’s eyes twinkle as he laughs loud and leans in to Dean’s mouth again, sucking his tongue against his own and insinuating his thigh between the shorter man’s.

As much as Dean likes the idea, he’s pretty sure that they’ll never reach the top of the mountain if they start something now; so he dips into the kiss just long enough to get Aidan properly worked up, then pulls away laughing as the other man pouts pathetically in his absence.

 

They look upwards at the snake-like path disappearing above them. They’re almost through the trees, Dean reckons; and he’s looking forward to the cooler air out of the thick shelter of the canopy. They’ve been walking for hours now but he knows it’s still a long way until they reach their destination. Aidan’s told him they’ll camp below the summit and hike up early in the morning when it’s clearer.

“We can stop properly for a while if you want?” Aidan offers, as he readjusts his shorts.

“Nah, I’m good to go if you are.”

Dean hoists his rucksack back on and gives Aidan a playful smack on the ass, before setting off up the slope again.

“You can make it up to me later though,” he adds with a wink, leaving Aidan chuckling behind him.

 

* * *

 

The summit rises above them like a marbled fang. They’re so high now that Dean can see the glinting reflection of the town beyond the blue-green bowl of Aidan’s valley, roads and rivers like veins stretching out across the landscape beyond. Thin streams of coral-coloured cloud trail off the line of peaks like whips, and slices of dusty sunset dissect the lower slopes.

Dean sits pressed behind Aidan, his chest to the Irishman’s back; arms curled tightly around his waist, and his chin resting on his shoulder. Aidan leans lazily back into Dean, eyes half-closed and humming just low enough that Dean can’t catch the tune. 

Dean is glad that Aidan is comfortable enough with silence not to say anything as they watch the sky fade from fire to powder and the enveloping blackness rolls up from the ridgelines. Words would only spoil it. Every phrase that pops into his head, everything he could possibly say to Aidan seems so inadequate against this backdrop. Instead, he settles for nuzzling his nose into Aidan’s hair, smelling fresh air and fading heat; dusty sweat and _Aidan_. He wonders if everyone feels like this about Aidan when they meet him. Wonders how they can possibly not.

 

Sometimes Dean is gripped with a fear that one day Aidan will wake up and leave this place as easily as he came. There is a restlessness within him, within his sadness, yes; but also just inherently in his nature that Dean just isn’t sure he can satisfy; a craving for adventure, for exploring, for the world. He wonders where he would go. He likes to dare hope that Aidan has found something here to make him stay, just for a while. In wild moments, deep thoughts in the small hours, Dean likes to think that maybe Aidan might ask him to go too. He wonders how it would feel, to leave everything behind. To leave home.

 

“Do you miss it?” he breathes.

“What? Intelligent conversation?”

Dean flicks his ear.

“Asshole. No, I mean home, Ireland.”

He knows he’s treading a fine line here but Aidan is in a good mood, and it’s now or never. Aidan hesitates for a second, then exhales and cocks his head as if he hasn’t really thought about it before.

“Sure. Yeah. I miss it.” He smiles wryly. “I mean who can ever get enough of being cold and wet?”

Dean laughs and Aidan twists himself round to look at him, his soft eyes growing more serious as he speaks.

“It’s where I grew up. We didn’t travel a whole lot until I was older, so pretty much everything I remember is from there. I miss... I miss the familiarity, I guess.” He pauses and clears his throat. “And obviously it’s gorgeous and the people are pretty great. But you know, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.”

“No?” Dean feels like he’s on the edge of something. His fingers play across Aidan’s wrist.

“Nah.”

“You feel more at home here?”

“No.” Aidan says softly, linking his fingers loosely through Dean’s as he glances back at the world beneath them; fireflies dancing in the trees far below.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen Aidan look so sincere when he points their entwined hands towards Dean’s chest.

“I feel more at home here.”

 

* * *

 

“What about those ones?”

Dean points up to a cluster of faint stars, his head rising and falling gently against Aidan's ribs.

Aidan exhales, the coil of smoke from his mouth blending seamlessly with the dusty Milky Way above them.

“That’s the Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. Daughters of Atlas. Technically you can only see six. There’s some legend about the seventh. Oh I dunno, can’t remember it.” Dean rolls over on Aidan's stomach to look at him in the glow of his cigarette. Aidan takes another drag and continues. “It varies in brightness. It’s some astronomy thing, complicated and hard to understand apparently. So sometimes it’s there, and sometimes it’s not.”

 _Like you_ , thinks Dean.

 

“And that one?”

“Astroglide,” Aidan announces solemnly.

“For serious?” Dean looks up again in amazement. He’d had no idea that the lube was named after-

Aidan throws back his head and roars with laughter, shaking Dean on top of him as his whole body rocks with it.

“Ahh, alright dickhead, very funny.” Dean can’t help but smile though. Aidan’s so fucking good at sarcasm, gets him every time.

“You know that one! That’s your Orion. Though obviously it’s upside down.”

“Eh?” Dean laughs.

“Upside down! In Ireland he’s the other way up. Standing on his bloody head down here.”

“Maybe it’s you that’s got him the wrong way.”

Aidan chuckles as he scratches his fingers lightly back and forth across Dean's forearm, stroking the mat of golden hair.

 

“Hmm. That one.” Dean picks out a lone bright star low over the horizon.

“Ahh. That’s a special one. That’s the Deano star.”

Dean snorts.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s a clumsy bastard. And legend has it he goes to great lengths to bed the objects of his affections. The story goes, he even threw himself in a lake once -”

Aidan is cut off by a sharp dig between his ribs. He laughs again, eyes narrowing to crescent moons in his amusement; and rolls Dean off his chest, pulling him down to the blanket-covered ground to lie next to him.

“He sounds like a bit of a twat,” Dean laments.

“Nah, it’s not all bad. It’s said he makes a mean bacon sandwich.” Aidan’s voice softens. “And I’m led to believe he’s very good looking.”

Dean’s dimples flash in the dark.

 

For a while neither of them speaks, watching the falling flecks of meteors light up the sky.

When he finally asks, Aidan replies without hesitation as if he’s known the answers his whole life, his words dissolving into the night like quiet constellations.

 

“Tell me something true.”

“When you’re taking photos, it’s you that’s the work of art.”

 

“Tell me something no-one else knows.”

“I am in love with Dean O'Gorman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww Aid... sigh. 
> 
>  
> 
> I appreciate this makes for choppy reading but I seriously need to get these two from A to B here, so bear with me! I think we needed some calm before the storm anyway ;)
> 
> Thank you once again for your comments and kudos, it's heartening to see that there are still people reading and enjoying enough to take the time for it. Big love.


	18. Alethiology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alethiology (n.) The study of truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MarigoldVance, get the umbrella. 
> 
> Thank you all, as ever, for your much-appreciated comments and kudos.

Dean has spent half his life looking at wood. Trees, grains, textures; connecting himself to the earth through them and always feeling grounded when he’s working with the warm strength of timber in his hands. These days, though, he finds himself turning his face to the sky more often than ever. He has Aidan to thank for that, for the optimistic lightness he finds up there. He searches for the comforting buzz of a helicopter behind every cloud. For him now the pattern of the stars will always look a little bit like the word love.

 

* * *

 

At first it isn’t so bad, the way Aidan changes the subject, avoids his questions with quick laughs and quips and kisses. He almost admires it; the way Aidan keeps his life compartmentalised. Dean’s own grief is nothing short of a mess. Some days he forgets, others he wakes and it clatters noisily, relentlessly around him. He will drag himself through the day, listless and irritable.

Aidan knows.

Gives him space to talk about it if he wants to, gives him space to keep himself closed off if he doesn’t. He feels guilty for loading Aidan in this way when the other man won’t - can’t? do it in return - but there’s no denying he always feels better afterwards. It can creep up on him in the space of a moment. He can be laughing one minute and crying the next, before his sadness dissolves into laughter again because he’s happy, he _is_ happy, and that’s ok too. It’s not that he feels Lee’s absence so sharply for lack of love. Aidan is more than he’d ever hoped for. It’s just that he learns that one does not, will not, can not replace the other. It’s a messy minefield, loving after losing, new and confusing. Aidan and Lee sit beside, on top of each other; intertwined yet completely separate in his heart and he is beginning to understand that he doesn’t have to stop loving one to love the other.

 

And Dean loves Aidan with a recklessness that shocks him. His need for him both terrifies and exhilarates him. It’s not a reliance, to his relief; but Aidan allows him to be a better version of himself, helps him find a kind of resolve and drive that he hasn’t had for a long time. Without even knowing he’s doing it, Aidan draws Dean out of himself.

It’s not that he feels more outgoing. He’s always happy to let Aidan do the talking, talk until he inevitably digs himself into a ridiculous hole, much to Dean’s amusement. Dean is still water next to the choppy exuberant chatter that Aidan spouts at all hours of the day – and night, he’s discovered; but the way Aidan looks to him after he has finished his piece, almost as if to seek Dean’s affirmation makes him feel like they are on the same footing even despite their differences. Like what Dean thinks _matters,_ and that the opinion of anyone else could be just as easily cast away as long as Dean was content. He is the calm to Aidan’s storm, whether he’s dazzling or dark. Neither one of them works quite so well without the other as they do together. He hasn’t ever understood the idea of partnership so well as he does now.

 

When it comes to Aidan’s recent past and the circumstances that brought him here, however, there remains a gaping hole, made ever more obvious to Dean by the filling in of the pieces that surround it. Aidan’s silence tugs at him. He is helpless in his attraction to it. It pulls at him like a tide; and despite himself he can’t help but chip away at Aidan, steering their conversations, giving him opportunity after opportunity to open up; to tell him what Dean knows he isn’t telling him.  He despairs at himself for doing it, wishing over and over that he could just leave it alone. He knows he is walking a fine line. He doesn’t want to hurt Aidan – that’s definitely the last thing on his mind – but he wants to be let in. He wants to be equal in this too. He wants Aidan to trust him.

 

* * *

 

“I’m going to my parents’ place next weekend.”

“Oh yeah?”

Aidan doesn’t look across, shifting the gears of his pickup as he drives them back to town. Dean wonders if he already knows what is what he is going to say next.

“Dad’s having a big birthday. Barbeque, all that stuff. They’ve asked... if you’d like to come?”

This time Aidan does look over as he moves his hand from the gear stick to scrub at his jaw. Dean sees worry settling itself in his eyes as he utters, “Ahh...”

“Too soon?”

“No! No, I just... I didn’t even know you’d told them about me. Thing is... I’ve got work on, you know?”

Dean gives a disappointed hum. He knows he’s been busy lately, that for a couple of weeks he’s only seen him for snatched kisses in the morning and late sleepy evenings; that during weekends together like the one they’ve just spent at the cabin it feels like he has to recharge himself, get his fill of Aidan to see him through the week. He doesn’t know if Aidan actually does or doesn’t have work on but he’s sure he could reschedule it if he really wanted to. He guesses that happy family occasions aren’t Aidan’s strong suit, not to mention the inevitable talk of his own family, of home. Part of him, though, had hoped that Aidan might be ready for it. He knows his folks would love him. He feels a pang of annoyance that if Aidan doesn’t feel like coming then at least he could be honest about the reason why.

 

“At the weekend? I thought you tried to keep them free?” he digs.

“I’m sorry, Deano. I mean I’m touched that they asked. I just... can’t.”

“ ‘s alright. They’ll understand. Another time, yeah?”

He forces his lips into a smile, trying not to sound too disgruntled. He taps his fingertips along the ledge of the window, watching the blur of foliage whip by as he tries to settle his disappointment. Aidan rests his hand on Dean’s knee affectionately and flashes him a smile.

“I hope you told them good stuff about me.”

“Of course.”

Dean senses an opportunity, wonders whether Aidan might finally -  

“So have you... told your folks about me?” he asks as nonchalantly as he can manage.

Aidan takes his hand off Dean’s knee and places it back on the steering wheel in an over-tight grip that Dean now knows signifies internal panic. Dean thinks back to the first weekend they met, Aidan driving him to the hospital, silent hands clawed around the cold rim of the plastic.

Aidan frowns at the windscreen as he swallows hard.

“Not... exactly,” he stammers.

“Not exactly?” Dean gives a half laugh. “So does that mean yes or no?”

“Uhm. I mean, I...” Aidan is yanking at his hair now. “I haven’t really...spoken...” he trails off, a stricken expression on his face.

 

Dean goes to dig more, but he catches sight of himself in the mirror above his head and the words dry up in his mouth. Who has he become? He hates that he’s doing this. Aidan is practically in pieces now. Dean can see him scrabbling for some kind of explanation as to why he might not have told his parents about him without having to tell him everything he already knows. He can see how hard this is for him. Aidan isn’t a liar - he’s terrible at it, in fact; but he clearly isn’t ready to tell Dean what he wants to hear because a simple “ _Well that’d be pretty impossible, darlin’_ ” would suffice. He knows he needs to put Aidan out of his now white-knuckled misery, and quickly.

 

“Never mind, eh?” he quips lightly. “Plenty of time for all that. Whenever you’re ready, yeah?”

He purposely prises Aidan’s near hand off the wheel and links their fingers together, flicking the radio on with the other to put an end to any need for a reply on Aidan’s part; wishing he felt the conviction that he can hear in his voice.

“Just whenever you’re ready, love.”

 

* * *

 

The paper feels stiff between his fingers as he reads the letter through for the third time. The toast pops and Dean pinches it out of the toaster, spreading it thickly with butter. He raises it absent-mindedly to his mouth but a hand reaches over his shoulder as and snatches the food straight from it. He whips his head round incredulously.

“Thanks.” Aidan beams while he chews. “Was starving.”

“Oh cheers. You’re welcome. Toast wanker.”

Aidan snorts and Dean whips his letter out of the spray of crumbs that come showering from Aidan’s mouth.

“Wha’s da’?” he asks, nodding his head towards the paper.

“It’s a letter,” Dean announces matter-of-factly.

“ _Is_ it? No shit!” Aidan mocks, pinning his arms around Dean’s waist from behind as Dean shifts his hand to let him read over his shoulder, chewing noisily into his collarbone.

“Christ... Dean... This is - you won an award?”

A warm blush spreads across Dean’s cheeks.

“Yeah. It seems so.”

 

It had been the last thing he’d expected. The nomination onto the shortlist had come months before; before he’d even been able to think about work again, and he’d tossed it aside having barely read the accompanying note. He’d all but forgotten about it until he’d found the envelope that Richard had carefully placed on the breakfast bar that very morning.

“It’s kind of a big deal, actually,” he admits. He can’t help the smile that splits his face. He’d worked hard, so hard for this, and he knows with the award comes a massive amount of exposure, not to mention a huge commission.

Aidan spins him around and pulls him in for an excited kiss, hands on either side of his face.

“It’s a _huge_ deal! I always knew you were unbelievable at this. Fuck, you’re amazing. I’m so proud of you, Deano.”

 

And he is. Dean sees it written across his face. Pride. Dean feels his heart flash hot at having Aidan’s belief in him. At how, from the moment he’d shown Aidan into his studio he’d been blown away by his work. How he’d been so careful running his hands over the finished pieces that Dean made for him, almost breathlessly disbelieving when he’d asked, “Are these _ours_?”

Dean has put a lot of himself into this for a long time. He remembers how Lee had scoffed when he’d told him of his plans for a radical new line of designs, how he’d told him they’d never garner enough interest. How it had hurt that he didn’t believe in his ideas. But no matter. He’s got proof that he was right, a payoff for his gamble.

 

“So is there some fancy ceremony then? An excuse to watch you get togged up?” Aidan smiles wickedly. “Free drinks?”

Dean laughs.

“Yeah, as it happens. Couple of weeks from now. At that huge marina complex they built up beyond the city docks. You’ll come, won’t you?”

He sees Aidan falter slightly at the mention of the marina, but his reply is seamless as he strokes Dean’s knuckles with the rough pad of his thumb.

“Just you try to stop me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean feels himself glowing. Sure, it’s warm in the vast space, and he’s had more than his share of prosecco but he suspects it might be in part to do with the fact that Aidan looks like he is about to burst on Dean’s behalf. He’s glad now that the actual ceremony is over. He doesn’t like to be the centre of such a crowd of attention, and having to actually accept an award in person isn’t his idea of fun but now that it’s all talk and catching up with old acquaintances he’s able to relax and finds that he is having a fantastic time. As ever, Aidan is more than happy to hold his own while Dean gets lost in conversation. He even overhears him field a few questions about Lee from people who know him a little better, for which he feels terrible; but Aidan handles them with grace and tact and Dean is more grateful than ever that he chose to dive into that lake after him and stands here with him tonight. He knows Aidan is still a little shy about the whole couple-in-public thing, but to Dean’s delight he places his hand on Dean’s back; slides it into his suit pocket, even momentarily takes Dean’s hand in his own when they find themselves alone for a quiet moment. Dean finds it hard to hold back when Aidan is suited and booted, and evidently so does Aidan, judging by the way he’s just dragged him outside for a smoke that was all-too quickly abandoned in favour of something more interesting.

 

He smiles at Aidan with kiss-swollen lips as the other man heads off to track down more booze. A light hand on his shoulder catches his attention and he finds himself face to face with K. Campbell Stott. He hasn’t seen him for a few years but he knows he’s recently been made president of the Design Association, and Dean would be embarrassed to hear that he’s full of praise for Dean’s latest work if it weren’t for his gentle demeanour and fantastically dry sense of humour. Dean finds themselves howling at an old story by the time Aidan returns with a bemused look as he hands Dean a cool glass.

“Aid, this is Ken Stott. Ken, this is my, ahh...”

“Aidan,” the Irishman supplies for him, shaking Ken’s hand.

“A pleasure,” Ken smiles. “Unfortunately for Dean, I know a bit too much about him from back in the day to be considered civilised company.”

Aidan throws a grin at Dean, who is busy looking at his feet.

“I look forward to hearing it.”

Dean clears his throat and makes some low threat to Ken about doing no such thing. Ken laughs him off.

“As much as I’d like to, gentlemen, we’re off, I’m afraid.” He nods in the direction of his wife and a few colleagues that Dean recognises from various conferences. He leans in and lowers his voice. “But we’re not going far, my yacht is moored outside, we’re heading out onto the Sound. Join us? There’s a few things I’d like to discuss with you further, Dean.”

Dean tries not to gape but instead he manages a demure smile.

“Sounds great. We’ll be out in a minute?”

Ken nods and makes his way towards his waiting group.

Dean turns away so Ken won’t see his wide eyes.

“Shit! Right, neck that and we’ll....”

Dean grinds to a halt. Aidan is white. Paper-white. He can almost hear his heart crashing in his ribcage. In his excitement he’s forgotten, forgotten that for Aidan this is –

 

“I can’t.”

Aidan whispers it. His eyes look glassy and he isn’t looking into Dean’s so much as past them.

“Aid...” Dean breathes out hard. He isn’t supposed to know. This isn’t the place to out him. He tries to make it seem like he assumes Aidan is just being shy. “It’s fine. Ken’s a nice guy, I’m sure the rest of them will be cool. This is,” he swallows. _Play it cool, Dean._ “This could be really important for me. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

He watches as Aidan grips his glass tighter and tighter still. He wonders how it doesn’t shatter between strong slender fingers.

“Dean, I...” Aidan looks down, up again, flicks his eyes across the room. Dean watches his lips go dry. “You go. I’m just not... maybe I’m not feeling so well. Will you apologise for me? I don’t mind. I’ll see you back at the hotel, yeah?”

Dean feels his spine prickle hotly.

_Tell me._

“Oh, love, don’t you?” He tries not to sound pissed. “You were fine just now. What’s... what’s up?”

“Don’t.” Aidan’s jaw is set tight now. “I just... I can’t go, Dean.” He raises his glass to his lips and drains it in one, pressing it into Dean’s hands as he backs away.

“Are you alright? Aids, I understand but... I don’t get many opportunities like this. This means a lot to me.”

Won’t he, can’t he, just do this for Dean? Or will he, of all times, use this as the opportunity to finally tell him why? Dean would gladly leave all of this behind, spend all evening, all week - all his life, if he needed to - comforting Aidan; talking to him, finding a way for him to get by if only he’d be officially allowed to know why Aidan currently looks like he’s seen a ghost and is about to throw up into the fake potted foliage of the conference centre lobby.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

And with that, Aidan turns on his heel and is gone.

 

* * *

 

Dean forgives him. Of course he does. What an ask it had been. Aidan had been so apologetic, so disappointed with himself; has been for the weeks that have passed since. Dean had seen it etched across his face when he’d returned a few hours later that night. He’d looked hollow, and Dean knew he’d been sitting up berating himself for not being able to go with him when it mattered to him the most. He tells him it doesn’t matter, and honestly, it doesn’t. The only thing that matters is that Aidan won’t – will not, _not_ let him in.

If not then, when?

Does every story have to grow old?

Is this where their bliss ends and bitterness begins?

 

Dean feels himself sink and only hopes that Aidan catches him before he reaches the bottom.

 

* * *

 

Grey morning light trembles through the window and forces Dean from his fitful sleep. Aidan lies face down next to him, arms thrown out in relaxed slumber, slow heavy breaths rolling across his shoulders.

 

Dean runs his eyes over the fading red scratches there. Last night he'd clung to Aidan like a lifeboat, needing to feel every inch of him, clawing at his skin like he could find a way inside to take shelter in the cave of his ribcage. Atoms cracked violently in his head as reached his climax and Aidan had kissed him through his shivers, mistaking them for cold.

 

He thinks of what they’ve done, just hours ago. Of how he had hungrily swallowed a mouthful of bitter salt, relishing the feeling of the warmth of Aidan draining down his throat. He tastes like the sea. It’s almost like it has crept inside his body, permeating him so that he carries it with him; and even though he tries, tries so hard to ignore it, to forget it; there is nothing he can do to keep it from filling him and spilling over into his life and into all that surrounds him.

 

He tries counting slats on the roof, but he knows sleep won't come back to him. Everything feels elemental; pixelated, as if he is looking at an old photograph of himself. Dean has found a loose thread in himself, the last one that Aidan hasn’t managed to help him fix; and as he’s tugged it he has come apart at the seams until he is broken up into the smallest possible pieces.

 

He rolls to the edge of the crumpled sheet and pulls his clothes on as a barrier to the chilly air. So much for the warm weather they’ve been promised, he thinks as he coaxes his cold toes into life. His hair is beyond dishevelled but he hardly cares. Hesitantly, he places a kiss on the back of the sleeping man's neck and heads outside.

 

If ever the weather has matched Dean’s mood, it is this morning. A wet mist has settled over the lake, hanging heavily in the low branches of the tree-lined shore. The silver clouds are oddly textured and Dean thinks they look how he feels: raked over.

 

He grips the splintering balustrade hard so that his knuckles whiten. His head swims as he watches the metallic ripples scatter across the surface. He feels torn in so many directions yet pinned in place all at once.

 

The boards creak softly behind him and Aidan's chin comes to rest on the top of his head.

"Cor, it's a bit cold this morning, eh?” he mumbles into Dean's hair.

Dean doesn't reply.

"You're up early. You 'k?" Aidan asks, snuggling into his back.

He pauses for a while, letting the words roll in his mouth.

“It just ... it’s been a year today.”

“Oh, my darlin’.”

Aidan sighs, and draws himself tightly into Dean, looping his arms around him from behind.

"Do you want to be on your own? Go see him?”

“Yes. No. I... don’t know.” Dean shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to go, I don’t think. I’d rather be here. He’s not _there_ , you know? I can just as easily think about him or talk to him here. I’m just sorry because I shouldn’t be thinking about him when I’m out here with you.”

“Don’t be stupid. I don’t mind.”

Dean turns his head slightly but Aidan holds him gently in place, his face nestled between Dean’s shoulder blades.

 

It hurts. The guilt of missing the man he loves in front of the man he loves. The constant confusion of how he can possibly feel so happy and so devastated at the same time. The agonising sting of memories that hit him like angry waves, over and over again. The solid, real, steady presence of Aidan, stepping in to hold him up so he doesn’t fall into the hole that Lee has left behind. The painful crack in his heart when he thinks about waking up with someone else, a someone he has woken up next to for nearly four months now, only a year – _365 tiny days, Dean_ , since Lee had died, after he’d told himself that he couldn’t ever look at anyone else, love anyone else. The ache he feels when he thinks of Aidan, always having to make room for someone else in their relationship. For how much he loves him. For how some days he wishes he would forget everything that had come before so he could give all of himself to Aidan.

 

“It’s ok to love him. It’s ok if you always do,” he says into Dean’s shirt. “There will always be things that you do for the first time without him. Even if you haven’t thought about it for ages, I’m sure there will be things that come at you out of nowhere. Today was always going to be a totally shit day. You just do what you need to do, ok?”

Dean feels tears pricking his eyes. He feels like if he moves the wrong way, the tenuously healed wound in his heart might rip open at any moment.

"Thank you.”

“No need. But Dean?” He feels Aidan swallow against his spine, hears the subdued, nervous edge to his voice. “Just don’t make me compete with him, ok?”

He plants a kiss behind Dean’s ear.

“Kettle’s on,” he murmurs as he slips back into the cabin.

 

Dean watches as a tear sails past the wooden railing and lands on the leaf litter far below.

 

Aidan’s not competing with Lee for a place in Dean’s life. Dean is competing with Aidan, with Aidan’s secrets; his stubborn refusal to let Dean in. He’s competing with himself, the Dean who doesn’t care and wants to fold himself up in Aidan and stay there, just as they are; against the Dean who just wants to help Aidan, to be on a level footing, to make things better for the other man.

 

He’s been battling it for a long time now, but something about Aidan’s words has shaken him into the realisation that he can’t go on like this. He knows it's as much his failing as Aidan's, his inability to let it slide, but he can’t find it in himself to do so.

 

Why is it that he needs this out of Aidan? He wonders today if it’s that he can’t handle the weight of death hanging over him, over them, like a heavy blanket he can’t shake off. He’s trying so hard to find his feet with his own grief; to find direction and purpose and happiness in this world he’s been thrust into post-Lee. And he’s found it, by God; it’s standing ten metres behind him, barefoot and smiling softly in the kitchen. But that he knows Aidan has this sadness that he buries deep inside himself, one that he refuses to admit to anyone else, one that hunts him and haunts him still no matter how much he convinces himself he is fine – Dean can’t handle that. It means he can’t leave his own grief behind, being constantly reminded of Aidan’s, treading around it. Won’t ever be able to, unless Aidan lets him in. And he won’t.

Dean screws his eyes shut.

Aidan never will.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“Hmm?” Aidan looks up from the book he’s flicking through. He’s wearing his glasses and he looks so vulnerable and sweet that Dean almost can’t go through with it. He steps a little further into the room and clutches at the work surface to steady himself.

“This. Us. Whatever this is. It’s not... gonna work out.”

Aidan is so taken aback that he actually laughs.

“What? Dea... what? Is this... is this because of what I just said? Because I can-”

 

“No. No. It’s nothing to do with that.”

Dean sighs. He should’ve known that Aidan wouldn’t make this easy.

 

“Is this,” he whispers, his face falling into hurt, “Is this because of last night?”

 

_Aidan shifts on the bed so Dean can slide his body between his knees._

_“Are you sure, love?”_

_“Yeah,” Aidan trembles defiantly. “Yes, fuck, I’ve been thinking ‘bout this... so much. Please. I want you.”_

_Dean runs his hands up Aidan’s thighs, higher, and then further back. He’s already ready. They haven't tried it this way since the fateful night that landed Aidan in hospital. Dean finds himself licking his lips as he slips his hand round the back of Aidan’s thigh, crooks his leg a little higher so that he can –_

_White stars explode in front of his eyes as Aidan encloses him. His head falls forward to his chest and he wills himself to slow, to go gently, to-_

_“Fuck me,” Aidan says. Stares him down with hooded eyes. Black lashes grace white cheeks. “Show me what you feel when I do this for you.”_

_Aidan curls his leg round Dean’s back and pulls him in tighter until he is buried in Aidan as deep as he can be. Knots his fingers through his hair and pulls him down until their mouths almost fit together._

_“Make me feel it.”_

_Dean doesn’t have a single coherent thought again for hours._

“No, Aids, no. Not that. That was... you know it’s not that.”

Aidan moves closer, his face a picture of absolute confusion and betrayal.

“I’m sorry, honestly, but I don’t understand. What are you doing? Why are you saying this?” He moves to cup Dean’s face, but Dean flinches away. “What is this _really_ about? Will you stop pretending like this is what you want and just get real with me? Talk to me. Don’t... do this.”

“Pretending? _I’m_ pretending?” Dean feels genuine anger building inside him now. “You’re the one that goes through your whole life pretending.”

“The _fuck_? Are you... d’you wake up high or something?” Aidan steps in towards him, mouth hanging open in consternation. The confusion that had plastered his face is fading and is being rapidly replaced by fury and Dean knows this is Officially. An. Argument.

 

Aidan stops himself and holds his hands up in front of himself in a gesture of peace.

“Deano,” he says, as calmly as he can. “I don’t know what’s going on. Why you’re saying this stuff. But I know it isn’t true. You don’t want this. I _know_ it. Tell me what this is about and we can talk. I get that its’ a difficult day for you, I –”

“You’re not listening to me, Aid. It’s nothing to do with that. I’m sorry. I’ve made up my mind.”

 

Aidan snaps. His face changes as he hardens his jaw, stepping in slowly as his words drill into Dean.

“Oh you have, have you? Well thank fuck for that. It’s always all about you, isn’t it? Do you ever consider what I might want?”

Dean’s head screams.

_Yes._

_I’m only doing this because of you._

_Because of what you want to keep quiet._

 

“D’you ever even consider what happens in the world around you, Dean? That other people have their own lives, own things to be dealing with? “I’ve made up my mind” ... Are you a fucking child? Aren’t we in this together? Or maybe you’ve never considered me. What the fuck do you think I’m even doing out here, Deano? In the middle of the bloody woods? What do you suppose _brings_ someone to a place like this?”

Aidan’s eyes narrow as his anger flares. They’re flashing wildly now and Dean finds himself feeling suddenly nervous.

“Ask yourself. Go on, _ask yourself_ ,” he yells, jabbing his finger at Dean’s chest, “Because you never asked me. Not once.”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it,” Dean counters sharply. “That’s exactly what this is about. You constantly deflect. _Always._ You’ve avoided all my questions every time I’ve tried to ask you about yourself. You don’t bring it up. Every time I give you an opportunity, you ignore me. Make a joke. Change the subject. Walk away. That first night, I asked you about yourself and you said nothing.”

“Given that you’d just spent half an hour bawling your eyes out and then decided to chuck yourself in the lake I figured that _maybe_ your need was greater than mine at that _particular_ moment,” Aidan spits. “It didn’t exactly seem appropriate.”

“Oh come off it. You’re so buttoned up. _You won’t talk to me_! Ever!” Dean yells. “You could, about anything you wanted, any time. You _choose_ not to, Aidan. It’s not my job to squeeze information out of you. What am I supposed to do, wait around forever on the off-chance that you let me in? I can’t do it to myself.”

“What exactly _is_ it that you want me to say, Dean? There’s fuck all for me to tell you. I grew up, I left home. That’s what people do. You enjoy it, don’t you? Going over and over everything that’s happened to you. What is it, do you like the sympathy? Or the feeling of everyone paying you attention? Poor Dean. We’re not all so hung up on our pasts that we need to go over them every five minutes.”

“I’m hung up on _my_ past? Pot and fucking kettle, Aid. You hide it all away in a little drawer and you think you don’t have to deal with-”

The words are out of his mouth before he’s even thought about what he’s saying.

 

Dean watches in slow motion as Aidan’s expression turns to abject horror. His voice is dangerously low and slow, his words thick with his flaring accent.

“You went through my _stuff_?”

Dean grabs his head.

SHIT.

 

“Oh Christ. Come on Aids, it’s not like I was trying to be a dickhead. I opened a few drawers, I found your photos. Yes, alright. Am I proud of it? No, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry _. I’m sorry._ It’s not like I did it on purpose. I didn’t realise you were locking your whole goddamn life up. That’s not how it works; you know? You can’t hide a bunch of photographs and think that will just erase your family and every bad thing that’s ever happened to you. You need to face it. I want to help you.”

 

Aidan doesn’t look at him.

“Who told you?” he whispers, suddenly pale.

Dean gulps, but doesn’t answer. He thinks naming names can only make things worse.

“Should’ve known. Fucking Graham. When?”

“What?”

“ _How long have you known_?”

Dean groans.

“God, I don’t know. Just after I met you guys in the bar that night? Before your birthday?”

“So then you thought you’d just come back out here and fucking... _seduce_ me because, what? You felt sorry for me? You think you fucking owe me something because I happened to save your life?”

“What? No! It’s nothing to do with... I don’t feel sorry for you, Aid. And I didn’t seduce you, I fell... I love you. You know that. I just wish you’d stop hiding. Lying to me. You don’t have to carry stuff like this around by yourself. You’ve told me nothing, nothing about yourself, and you know what? It’s getting a little bit tiring. This is _huge_ , Aids, it’s not like we are just talking about some tiny thing here. Your whole past, your entire family, everything that brought you here and yes, makes you who you are. You cannot expect to get as close to someone as you are to me and this not matter. Treading around you, it drags me back to somewhere I don’t want to go. We’re supposed to be... whatever this is; and I don’t know how to do it if you aren’t telling me the truth. Please just let me in. I need to know that I mean the same to you as you do to me. All those times, all those times you could have said something and you didn’t.”

 

Aidan just glowers at him.

“I need a smoke.”

He yanks a cigarette from his back pocket and thunders to the door but Dean just can’t help himself. He’s angry with Aidan for once again avoiding the subject, and at himself because he has done this all wrong and for the whole sorry fucking mess that he has just made. The words taste cold as they fall off his lips.

“That’s right, run away. That’s all you’re good at, isn’t it?”

 

Aidan whips round to face Dean again. His brows form a sharp arrow in the centre of his face, eyes almost black with fury. He moves slowly but purposefully toward Dean, drawing himself up to his full height so he’s almost a whole head taller.

 

“Fuck you.”

He whispers it, driving his finger into Dean’s chest as he does so. Into the exact same spot where he’d coaxed Dean back to life.

“Fuck you, O’Gorman.”

And with that, he snatches Dean’s car keys up from the bench and flings them at him, grabs his jacket and storms out of the cabin.


	19. Morosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morosis (n.) the stupidest of stupidities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much as always for reading and your lovely generous kudos and comments. I'm sorry I've been a little slow on the updates, I promise to do better!

Dean slobs aimlessly on the couch, like he has for the past two days, and watches the late afternoon light play across the white wall. His phone lies forgotten somewhere underneath the cushions; and at any rate, he hasn’t turned it on. He doesn’t even know if Aidan is still out in the woods, and frankly doesn’t care.

 

Maybe telling Aidan that they had to end things wasn’t the smartest idea he’s ever had, but it certainly seemed like the only option to Dean at the time. It’s not that he doesn’t love him. Heck, it wouldn’t hurt so much if he didn’t. It’s just that he can’t keep _doing_ this to himself. Being kept in the dark by the person that is supposed to trust him the most, waiting for an admission that he knows will never come, and a pass into a part of Aidan’s life that he will never be allowed into.

 

_I deserve more._

Part of him wishes he could go back to that moment, do it all differently. Go back further, sit Aidan down, and calmly tell him what he’d known. He’s fairly sure now, having had time to think, that he needn’t have been so dramatic about it. He’s sure Aidan would have understood, understood that he hadn’t meant to find out, that he hadn’t struck up a relationship with him based on pity.

 

The other part of him, though, hears Aidan’s stinging tirade -

“ _D’you ever even consider what happens in the world around you, Dean?... Are you a fucking child? Maybe you’ve never considered me... You enjoy it, don’t you? Going over and over everything that’s happened to you. What is it, do you like the sympathy? Or the feeling of everyone paying you attention? Poor Dean.”_

\- and he hopes that Aidan stays in the woods until his bitter bloody end.

He closes his eyes and is just dozing off when he is startled by a light weight dropping onto his chest. His eyes fly open to find Richard hovering above him, having placed a small padded envelope on his t-shirt.

“This was on the doorstep. Has your name on it.”

Dean grunts and tears into the envelope with his teeth, flicking his eyes down to the shaky looking scrawl on the front. He tips the contents out into his palm and feels a sharp pang when he recognises his house key, his spare key – the one he’d given Aidan a few months ago.

 

_Aidan padding quietly into Dean’s bed after work, keys clinking as they’re placed carefully on the desk, trying not to wake him but failing every time._

_Aidan nervously fumbling with the lock the first time he’d used the key, his shock of hair appearing slowly around the door._

_Aidan’s face when Dean places the key in his palm, as if he’s just given him the whole world to hold._

 

Clearly Aidan is back in town after all. So much for rotting in the woods. _Coward._ Couldn’t even bring himself to knock on the door and hand them over in person.

 

He grinds his teeth as he flings the keyring onto the coffee table, watching as they slide across the smooth surface and jangle to the floor. He turns and curls himself into the plump cushions at the back of the sofa, feeling oddly empty. He barely moves as Richard bustles about the room. Dean imagines his expression in the kitchen behind him, can almost feel him pressing his lips together, disapproving of the mess he has made of the living area.

“Nice day today. Looks like we’re going to get that Indian summer after all.”

“ ’s it?” Dean grunts.

“What’s up with you? Where’s Aidan?”

“Who cares?” he snaps, more bitterly than he’d intended.

“Ohh... kay. What’s going on?” Richard frowns as he breaks his own rule and takes a seat on the coffee table, cautiously brushing aside the precarious pile of snacks and junk that Dean has piled there. “Dean?”

Dean takes a deep breath, and for a moment he feels the anger fall out of his chest as his ribcage lowers, replaced by uncertainty and the dire need to tell someone about the mess he’s dug himself into.

 

* * *

 

“And you’re telling me all this because you’re going to listen to me when I tell you to go over there and apologise?”

“He’s the one that needs to apologise,” Dean pouts petulantly.

“Look, I understand that you’re upset that he hasn’t been upfront with you. But you of all people should know, there isn’t a right way to do this. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t have to. How would you have liked it if Luke or Adam or I had told you what you should and shouldn’t have done or felt when Lee passed?”

“That’s different.”

“How, exactly?”

“Because I wasn’t hiding it!” Dean yells. “I was trying to work through it. I might not have done it very well, but at least I wasn’t trying to pretend it never happened. He’s hurting himself. It’s not... it’s not healthy, he needs to talk about it. I want to help him.”

“And this is helping him? Telling him you need to break it off?”

“No,” Dean groans. “I didn’t want... I didn’t know what else to do, Rich. He was never going to tell me. He just wasn’t. Believe me when I say that I’ve tried so hard to just ignore it, to move past it, but I can’t. I just can’t. If he’s not telling me this, then what else is there he’s keeping from me? Maybe I don’t even know him at all.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I think you know exactly who he is. You’ve known for a long time now and you love him anyway.”

“I don’t know. It just... hurts. I’ve told him everything. He knows all of it. Why can’t...” Dean falters. “Why can’t I be that person for him?”

“I think you are, Dean; he just isn’t ready. We all do this in different ways. I’m sorry, but you don’t get to tell him how to feel. This,” Richard waves his hands in front of him, “situation, it’s ridiculous. You need to be telling _him_ all this, not me. And I don’t mean fighting with each other, I mean talking. Like adults. You know what I think? I think you’ve been a bit of an idiot and the two of you could have avoided all this if you’d just addressed it sooner. You need to apologise.”

“But what he said, to me, about me... I’m not forgiving him for that. He was bang out of line.”

Richard shrugs lightly. “I’m sure you said plenty of things that you didn’t mean.”

Dean mutters something under his breath about meaning the whole damn lot but Richard ignores him.

“Don’t be such a child. I don’t know what goes on in your head sometimes, Dean; but you need to fix this. I'm not saying these things because I think what he's been through is worse than what happened to you. His situation is..." Richard rakes at his jaw. Dean knows that Richard is gutted for Aidan, for his story. His face as Dean told him everything gave that away. The way he'd clutched at his chest. The way his body had sagged. 

"It's horrible, certainly, and no-one deserves to go through something like that, but one can't measure these things against each other. That's' not why I'm saying this. I'm saying it because you and Aidan...” He raises his hand to scrape through his hair. “You and Aidan are good together. Really good. I’ve never seen you like this, the way you’ve been since you met him. Not even... not even with Lee. He makes you better, Dean. You’ve got your spark back. Don’t cock this up just because you’re too stubborn to apologise.”

 

For a moment his resolve wavers. Something about Richard’s words has hit home. He and Aidan _are_ good together. For a brief moment Dean wishes Aidan were here, curled into him on the sofa, laughing about how stupid they’ve been. But then he feels annoyance flaring inside him about the way this has gone down. Since when has Richard been Aidan’s number one bloody fan? He’s supposed to take Dean’s side, and all he’s done has been to tell him how stupid he’s been and make him feel worse.

He thinks back to the argument at the cabin and remembers Aidan’s stinging words. He shakes his head.

Richard stands up, exasperated.

“Fine. Have it your way. Stop moping then, if you’re so pleased with yourself. Don’t say I didn’t try.”

 

* * *

 

Dean has taken his sulking to his bedroom. He lies on the bed, arm thrown carelessly across his face, trying to block out the light and Adam’s ceaseless buzzing around. He can hear him wittering on and on, despite his best efforts to tune him out.

“What you need is a night out. Have a drink, calm down, get over yourself, then go and sort this out.”

Of course now that Adam knows, he’s taken it upon himself to act as peacemaker-cum-saint, determined to be the one to patch things up. Dean doesn’t know why he cares so much, given the way that Adam looks at Aidan half the time, open-mouthed and starry-eyed. If Adam wants him so much, maybe he should just go and get him for himself. Let him be disappointed in what he finds.

“I’m not going anywhere. And I’m definitely not sorting anything out. If he wants to fix it, he can come over here himself. Anyway, I can drink here. Don’t see why I should have to get dressed.”

“I just think-”

“I’m not interested! Leave it, Ads!”

“Fine. Suit yourself. I’ll find someone else to go out with then.” Adam turns and marches out of the room but before he goes he narrows his eyes at Dean. “I don’t know what’s got in to you, lately; but for the record, you’re being a real dickhead.”

 

Dean chucks his shoe at the door but luckily for Adam it swings shut before it reaches him. He flops back onto the bed and sulks. If anyone is being a dickhead, it’s Aidan.

He huffs and pushes himself up until he’s sitting on the side of the bed. He stares blankly at his feet for a long while, before tilting his head forward until he cradles it in his forearms.

_Who is he kidding?_

 

Not himself.

He’s the one that needs to apologise. He knows it, he’s known it since the door of the cabin swung shut in his face, since raging footsteps faded into the cold forest and didn’t return. He’d waited for nearly an hour but Aidan knows how to be a stubborn bastard when he wants to be.

He loves Aidan, and as hurt as he feels, nothing has changed that. He’s annoyed with himself for letting it go on this long but Aidan just doesn’t help himself. They’re just as bad as each other.

 _Screw it_.

Maybe Adam was right. He hauls himself up and yanks a jacket off the hook on his door. Grabbing his keys off the rack in the hallway, he yells to Richard, “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

 

* * *

 

Dean gulps his fourth - or is it his fifth? – beer. The drinks are cheap and the music pounds relentlessly in his ears, but he sits quietly at the bar, deep in thought. He’s purposely chosen a bar that he knows Adam won’t be in, and one that he definitely hasn’t been to with Aidan. He needs to be by himself for a minute, to figure out what he needs to say when the time comes to see Aidan. He knows he needs to get it right, that he won’t have more than one shot at it, given the mood Aidan had been in when they’d last seen each other.

 

He sighs and sets the bottle back on the bar a little too forcefully, jogging the elbow of the woman next to him and splashing her drink all over the wooden surface. She turns in annoyance, but her dark eyes soften a little as she runs her gaze over Dean.

“Christ, I’m really sorry. I’m such a klutz,” he apologises, dabbing ineffectively at the pooling liquid with a napkin.

A small smile forms on her lips.

“That’s a funny kind of name. I’m Olivia.” She holds out her hand and Dean shakes it gently, uncertainly.

“Dean,” he says. “I meant... you know. The drink. Total accident.”

“I’m sure it’ll all be forgotten once you’ve bought me another one.”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes but he signals to the barman, who swiftly delivers her another vodka and tonic.

“So. Why the sad face?”

Olivia has turned towards Dean and is leaning in over her newly-filled glass. He picks up the faintest hint of violet scent and it makes him think of an entirely different pair of brown eyes. He wonders what she’d really think if he told her the whole story, but in the end just sighs, “It’s been a long day.”

“Mmm. I know exactly what you mean. I’ve got a good cure for long days.”

Dean’s a little startled at her boldness, but in truth he’s sick and tired of his own company and he finds himself drawn in out of curiosity and misery.

“Do you dance, clumsy Dean?”

She winks and slides off her stool, sashaying off to the crowd of swaying bodies.

 

Dean drains his bottle, wipes his damp hands on his dark jeans and ambles towards her. He doesn’t care too much for dancing but it’s really not like he has anything else to do other than drink, which he realises probably isn’t the best idea. Olivia pulls him in a little closer than he’d intended, snaking her fingers up his back to tug his shirt out of his waistband, and sneaking them up under the fabric to brush against the skin of his back, hot and electric. He thinks about going back to the bar but she takes his hand and places it on her hip and it’s just _nice_ , and for a minute Dean lets himself forget about everything else except for the music and the buzz of beer in his head and the pretty girl in front of him.

 

Maybe dancing wasn’t such a bad idea. He feels himself starting to relax as their hips swing slowly to the rhythm, tension fading from his shoulders and the headache that he hadn’t even realised he’d had finally starting to lift. It makes it so much easier to accept that he’s been so wrong about everything, and he resolves that he’s going to put an end to it tonight. He’s going to make his apologies to Olivia, and as soon as he leaves here he’s going to go round to Aidan’s and set things straight. He’s ready to apologise for everything, and; if Aidan will forgive him, to forget everything and hope that they can carry on as they were.

 

So what if Aidan struggles to open up to him about what happened? If Aidan doesn’t want to make room for it in his life, then Dean doesn’t either. He hopes that in time he can help him learn to let it relax the hold it has over him, even if he doesn’t want to discuss it openly.

He imagines Aidan's face as he'd approached Dean's door with the key in the envelope. Raising his hand nervously to knock, pausing and biting his lip. Dropping his fist defiantly back by his side. Wavering, torn. He imagines him standing there for some indeterminate length of time, feet frozen to the spot while his head and heart race. How he'd have sighed inside while he crouched to prop the envelope carefully against the jamb, quietly creeping away so as not to be heard. Dean's heart aches just thinking about it. 

 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice that Olivia is kissing him, a tingling trail up his neck and along the sharp stubbled line of his jaw. As he realises what’s happening, her lips find his mouth and he jumps back like he’s been burned, eyes wide with surprise. Olivia is a pretty girl. She seems nice. Dean knows it’s his own fault for going along with her flirtation, dancing too long and too close. Had he been single he’d have been more than happy to buy her drinks; been stoked to have been asked to dance. Kissed her back. Been curious to see where this would lead.

 

But he isn’t. Not in his heart, anyway. He doesn’t want this. Not any of it.

He starts to stammer an apologetic rejection, and an explanation, but it’s too late. There’s something that’s been bugging him in his peripheral vision, and only now does he grasp what it is.

 

He realises that the t-shirt stretched across the taut stomach standing in the doorway opposite him is actually his own, and he breaks away just in time to see Adam and Jed and Aidan; Aidan, whose expression goes from startled to broken and finally furious in the space of a second. Aidan, who never takes his eyes off him. Aidan, who turns and leaves as fast as he came in; leaving Dean reeling and Adam gaping.


	20. Dozakh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dozakh (n.) A place of torment one believes themselves to be in when separated from their lover; hell.

Dean slides back into existence with a groan. Bile gathers in the back of his throat as he rolls over, but he swallows it. He can’t be bothered to be sick. Too much effort. He throws his arms over his eyes and lies still with his mouth cracked open, breathing through his nose; trying not to think about alcohol or how much of an idiot he must have made of himself or – how did he even get into bed anyway?

 

_I’m too old for this shit._

He wakes for the second time with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, having obviously drifted back into a nauseous slumber. Thankfully, the urge to throw up has eased a little, but _God_ his head hurts, and the smell of tequila on his breath isn’t helping either. He flips over, eyes screwed shut, fumbling under the pillow for his phone but failing to find it. He cracks his eyes open to help him locate it, find out what the damn time is; but for the life of him he can’t work out where the hell he is.

This isn’t his bed.

Isn’t his room.

 

He opens his eyes a little wider and squints at the unwelcome white morning light pouring in from the flimsy window covering that isn’t his. He shifts himself up to sitting, the soft covers that aren’t his pooling around his waist.

He is, he realises, naked – though he has no memory of getting undressed.

 

His clothes lie heaped on the floor next to the bed. Groaning, he hauls himself out of bed and pulls on his boxers, hopping as he catches a foot on the waistband.

 

_Where the fuck?_

 

Dean’s head is foggy and slow as he tries to piece his evening back together. He vaguely remembers a cab, though he could have sworn he’d got in alone. He coughs as he stumbles to the window, peering around the curtain to try and get his bearings.

 

Then he twigs. The goddamn spare room in his own house.

 

He’s put himself to bed in the spare fucking room, of all places. Shaking his head at his own blunder, he swallows a bitter tequila hiccup and staggers off in search of water and painkillers.

 

Only when he is halfway to the kitchen does he remember.

 

* * *

 

After the fucking disaster in the bar last night he’d of course pushed his way outside after Aidan, but there was no sign of him. He knows Aidan, knows how fast and hard his temper flares. Knew he would be in too much of a rage to even look at him, to listen to a word of it - and he doesn’t blame him for that; but it doesn’t stop him from grabbing out his phone, calling him immediately, but he was greeted with voicemail after voicemail. Of course. Of course he’d turned his phone off.

 

Adam had rushed out too, but upon seeing that Aidan had already left he’d merely shoved his way past Dean, ramming his delicate shoulder into Dean’s own with unnecessary force, a filthy look plastered across his face.

 

 _“Adam! Come onnn, Ads! You gotta-”_ he’d called to Adam’s rapidly receding back, desperate to explain to somebody, anybody that might listen, but Dean was left standing alone with a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach and a fiery ache in his ribcage.

 

Standing despairing and torn on the pavement, he’d made up his mind to go to Aidan’s after all. This couldn’t wait. He’d needed to make it right, and fast. So what if Aidan wouldn’t listen? He’d have stood outside all night if he’d needed to. He hurried down the streets at a jog, heart pounding. The light misty rain turned heavier, and he’d raised his arm to hail a cab but then cursed himself as he’d realised he’d left his jacket – and his wallet in the pocket – back over the barstool in the club. As he’d picked up his pace his phone had rung in his pocket, heart leaping out of his ribcage.

 

_“Aid? Aidan?”_

_“Listen to me, you little shit.”_

_An unwelcome Scottish growl._

_“You set one foot on my property and I swear you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.”_

_“Graham, for fucks sake, let me-”_

_“I’m not going to let you do anything. You’ve done enough. I trusted you,” he hisses, “And now look where you’ve gone and got yourselves. Fuck off, Dean. You come round here and I’ll call the police for trespassing.”_

_“Are you even serious? You can’t-”_

_“I can do whatever I damn well like. Just like you, evidently. Now piss off home, and don’t you go calling him.”_

_“I need to talk to him. Please. It’s not-”_

Dean heard the line click and go dead as Graham hung up.

He nearly terrified a passing couple as he cried out in frustration and anger and guilt and ache. There’d been nothing else for it other than to return reluctantly, miserably, to the bar. In the very least, he’d needed his wallet back. The bartender had taken one look at his face and nudged a slammer towards him across the sticky wooden surface.

Dean can’t remember much of what had happened after that.

 

* * *

 

His head rests heavily in his hands, elbows propped on the dining table. His stomach roils if he moves too much, but he doesn’t know whether it’s hangover or heartbreak. He hears the front door click shut, the pad of feet entering the living area.

Richard rustles a paper bag of pastries and makes calm domestic noises as he putters around the kitchen. He clears his throat softly.

“I went by the coffee shop this morning.”

The expectant pause hangs between them. Dean chooses silence.

“I saw Adam.”

Dean steels himself and looks up wearily between his fingers. He knows what’s coming.

“What the _hell_ are you doing, Dean?” Richard’s tone is abnormally blunt and accusatory. “I come in here, half expecting to hear you say you’d gone round to Aidan’s to talk things through, worked it out; but here you are having hooked up with... whom, exactly?”

 

Dean finally raises his face to look at his friend but as he opens his mouth to answer all that comes out is a whimper. The tears that he’s been holding back painfully in a tight ball within his chest all morning spill out, hot and fast, and he swallows hard in an attempt to keep the last remaining pieces of himself together. Richard softens immediately. He covers the distance between them in a few strides and sinks down until he crouches at Dean’s elbow.

“Hey. Hey now, come on. I’m sure it’s not so bad...” He winces, not sure that it is, in fact, alright; but hoping to give Dean a glimmer of hope to hang on to.

“You kidding?” Dean hiccups. “It couldn’t be worse if I’d actually tried to make it so.”

“Alright.” He rubs Dean’s arms lightly, reassuringly. “Maybe it’s not... _fine,_ but are you at least going to tell me your side of the story?”

 

Dean nods weakly as Richard sinks into the chair next to him, draws it in close, pressing Dean’s knees in between his own; grateful for at least having the chance to explain himself to someone. Richard looks at him intently with clear blue eyes, eyebrows raised as if to convey the impartiality of his audience. Dean meets his gaze, knows that his eyes are giving him away, doing that thing where they turn a ridiculous shade of blue against red rims, despite trying not to cry. Richard reaches out and grasps his hand round the back of his head and pulls him forwards, just a few inches, but it’s enough; it’s _I’ve got you_ and _I’m listening_ and _It’ll be alright_ and it just about finishes Dean off.

What the hell would he do without Richard anyway?

 

* * *

 

He’s sent him countless messages. Every time he takes out his phone he stares at the screen for hours, trying desperately to come up with the best way to explain, to make Aidan listen. The right words, he knows, are crucial here.

Every message ends up the same.

 _Aidan._ They say. Just _\- Aidan._

His heart nearly stops when he finally receives a reply after two days. He holds his breath as he swipes the screen to read the message.

“This is Eva. Aidan says fuck off.”

He throws the phone on the ground.

 _Fuck yourself_ , thinks Dean.

And in the same breath, _oh god please just call me._

He’s tried Adam but he told him where to go as well.

 _Fantastic_ , he thinks. _I’ve lost my boyfriend and all my friends too._

 

Dean falls asleep with his hand draped across the wasteland of empty space on the sheet next to him, listening to his traitorous blood pounding maddeningly in his ears.

_comeback/comeback/comeback_

 

* * *

Richard traipses in, placing his laptop bag down carefully on the dining table as he looks suspiciously around the dim kitchen, eyeing the debris littered across the counter that hasn’t been cleared since breakfast.

“Is, ahh... dinner on?”

Dean flinches on the sofa and curses himself for forgetting that he was supposed to do the grocery shop.

 

He’d walked to Aidan’s, all the way across town, a wicked warm wind slowing him all the way. He’d hesitated when he finally arrived and spotted Aidan’s car, sudden panic rising inside him when he realised he had no idea what he should actually say; but his feet took him to the door anyhow, up the thankfully-empty driveway. He knocked more times than he can remember, but the house had remained silent.

 

Defeated, he’d wandered into the woods at the edge of town for a while, but it only reminded him even more acutely of what he’s lost. He wonders if he will walk into the forest again, to the place where they met. If he will see the lake in which he lost and found everything. If he will see the cabin which feels more like home than anywhere else ever has.

 

He’d gone into his shed with the thought of working, but in the end he’d sat staring at the same piece of timber for over an hour, idly raking his hand through the rough curls of old shavings that he hadn’t yet bothered to clear up, before he gave up and returned to the house, shutting his eyes against the day and his miserable existence.

 

He twists himself round and drapes himself lamely across the back of the couch, throwing Richard what he hopes is an apologetic look. Frankly he doesn’t care if they eat or not; but Richard is, unusually for him and possibly for the first time since Dean can remember it, annoyed.

“Ahh. Christ, sorry Rich. There’s umm... a can of meatballs in the cupboard?”

Richard gives a derisive frown.

“Or we could order a takeaway?”

“I don’t want a takeaway. I would like a glass of wine and some food in the fridge. Is it too much to ask that you do your part here? I appreciate that you’re busy ballsing your life up but I happen to have a had a shitty day and I’m frankly not in the mood for living with a teenager right now. I gave you my advice, you chose to ignore me. You’ve made your own bed here, Dean; so you’re going to have to learn to live with it, if you’re incapable of fixing it. You’re thirty-five. Act like it. It’s your turn. Go and get some food.”

 

Dean starts to defend himself, astonished at Richard’s bitterness, but he stops before the words even leave his mouth. He’s a little surprised that Richard is suddenly blowing so cold after having been so supportive the other morning. He’d told him everything, about what happened at the bar; and for his part Richard seems to be the only person that believes Dean when he says he didn’t kiss Olivia, that he didn’t want her to either. He knows he’s been foolish, sure; but at least having Richard in his corner gives him a little strength. Gives him the determination not to give up on Aidan.

 

But Richard is right. He’s been totally useless for days, moping and glowering and doing little else but slouching on the sofa, and all the while Richard has tried his hardest to help and put up with his latest disaster. Richard always helps. If it were the other way round – _which it never would be_ , he thinks a little bitterly, _because Richard literally never fucks up_ – he knows that Rich would be trying a lot harder than he is himself. He has a duty to his friend, and he needs to do better.

 

Guiltily, he pushes himself back off the sofa and fumbles for his shoes.

“I’m sorry, mate. Give me twenty minutes, yeah?”

 

* * *

 

He pulls up outside the supermarket on the far side of town. He knows he runs the risk of making Richard more annoyed by taking a further ten minutes to complete his trip, but his subconscious has driven him over here without him even considering it. He knows why, of course. The route takes him past Aidan’s road, though he hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the man. Still, being here makes him feel like he is at least closer to Aidan, in his own stupid way. He grabs the keys from the ignition and jogs into the store.

 

Dean spots the dark-haired man almost immediately but follows him down two aisles before he can be sure it’s him. What are the _chances?_   Aidan barely ever sets foot in the supermarket, given that Graham is more than happy to cater for him - and even for Dean, on the occasion that he’d stopped by Aidan’s.

 

“Aid?”

The man stops but doesn’t turn around. Dean knows he’s rolling his eyes though, _feels_ it; and he swallows hard to brace himself for the scene that is undoubtedly about to unfold.

“Aidan.” Dean tries to sound commanding but it comes out more desperate than he’d hoped.

 

The other man drops his shoulders in exasperation and turns.

“Cornered in dry goods,” Aidan says, not without a hint of sarcasm.

Dean breathes out and tries to keep calm despite his racing pulse and the niggling annoyance that rises in him at Aidan's persistent resentment.

"Aidan, please can we just – talk? C’mon,” He moves to block Aidan as he tries to leave, “Please?”

“I was under the impression that we were,” Aidan snaps, and Dean exhales deeply again.

 

_Don’t fuck up._

 

“You know what I mean. Please? Just,” he glances round, taking in the other people in the aisle, “In private. I know I’ve no right to ask anything of you. But - five minutes, that’s all I’m asking. I just... I want you to know what really happened. I’ve been calling you, I know you know that, but of course you won’t answer. I don’t blame you either but this isn’t going to go away one way or another if we don’t talk. And I want to know about...” he stumbles, but if it’s the last chance he has to talk to Aidan then they might as well get everything out there, “Before all that. I want you to have a chance to tell me for yourself, about what happened to you and your family, if you want to.”

Aidan regards him, near expressionless, eyes cold under his lowered lids.

“There’s nothing for me to say, is there? Seeing as you already know everything about me. I mean fuck, do you just want to come round and go through my whole room? It’ll probably be quicker.”

Dean gulps.

“Alright. Alright then. Even if you’ve nothing else to say to me, at least will you let me apologise properly?”

 

Aidan groans in annoyance and dumps his basket, kicking it to the edge of the aisle. He says nothing but he inclines his head sharply toward the exit and strides away. Dean follows him outside and into a dim alleyway at the side of the store.

 

"You've got until I finish this," Aidan grunts as he flicks his lighter, slumping against the dirty brick wall.

Dean feels his skin crystallise in the chill of Aidan's gaze. Suddenly his mouth is dry and the speech he’s been going over and over in his head vanishes now that he’s really here, standing in front of him, and all that remains is a handful of hopeful words and the knowledge that whatever he does say will probably fall short of even beginning to suffice.                                                   

“Aid, I... I know you’re not the kind of person who will fall for grovelling, so I won’t waste my time. I’d get down on the floor and beg you if I thought it would help.”

“Try me,” Aidan snarls.

Dean is caught off-guard.

“You... you actually want me to do this on my knees?” he stammers.

Aidan looks coolly over Dean like he’s considering it, but eventually he gives his head an almost imperceptible shake.

 

“I want to tell you that I’m sorry. For the fact that you’re even having to stand here, listening to this. None of this should have happened and it’s all my fault. I don’t just mean... what you saw, but for what happened at the cabin. I was... so wrong. About everything. I know that apologising isn’t even going to begin to fix this, but I need to start somewhere. I am, though, so, so very sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this. What happened that night, it wasn’t what it looked like.”

 

Aidan snorts.

“Looked plenty straightforward to me.”

Dean sighs, frustrated with himself and with Aidan. He doesn’t blame him one inch for being this way, but it isn’t making the situation any easier.

“What I mean is, I know what you saw; and yes, that girl... kissed me, but it wasn’t like I’d gone out to pull. I spilt her drink. I bought her a new one. I was angry at myself and I was tired and I was stupid. We danced. I shouldn’t have even let myself get that far. And I know you won’t believe a word of this but I didn’t want... I didn’t want it. At all. I was actually just thinking about how much of an idiot I’d been, of how everything that happened between us at the cabin was my fault. Of how I needed to come and apologise, for what I did, for what I said. I was lost in all that and before I knew it she just kissed me and there you were...”

 

Aidan remains stony-faced.

“How convenient. And if I hadn’t walked in? What then? Would you be out here right now with me, or would you be off with her? With someone else?”

“You must know the only person I want to be with is you.”

“That’s funny, cos I’m pretty sure I remember you breaking up with me.”

Dean groans.

“I know. I know. And that was... God, Aidan. Can’t you see? I didn’t know what else to do. I felt like I had nowhere else to go. In hindsight, I should have just come out with it, ages before, as soon as Graham told me. He made me promise not to. I thought that maybe if I gave you the opportunity, you’d open up to me and tell me anyway. I want you to let me in, Aid. You think it doesn’t matter, that you can just ignore it, but it’s already driving a wedge between us. I can see that everything that happened – look at me, Aidan - everything that happened, you try to ignore it but it’s already defining you; your Dad, your brother. Your Mum. You’re still hurting so much and I just want to help you. I think.... I think we could make both of us better.”

“Oh, we’re not going through all this again. Is that why you’re here? For me or for you?”

“I’m here because I love you.”

“You don’t love me, you love how loving me makes you feel about yourself,” Aidan snaps, his eyes lit an odd shade of amber in the glow of his cigarette.  

“You don’t... you don’t think I love you?” Dean splutters. “Aid, I have... I’ve been so monumentally stupid. I don’t quite know how it got to this, but that you’re now standing here, questioning if I ever even _loved_ you... this is madness. I know you know it is too. I have never loved anyone the way I love you. I know you feel the same.”

 

Aidan pulls his body away from the wall and closes the space between them by a few inches, hunching his shoulders angrily. Even now, even in this totally inappropriate moment, Dean can’t help but be blown away by how beautiful he is, half-illuminated and wholly furious; his face a map of lines, from the steely arrow of his eyebrows to the outline of his jaw shaded sharply by a thickening beard, the delicate point of his ears and strong plane of his nose. Dean wonders how his eyes can be so clear, so intense even when he’s reeling – is it that the whites are whiter than anyone else’s that he knows? Or that sometimes he just doesn’t seem to blink at all?

 

“And how the hell do you know how I feel about everything? My family especially. Like you just said, it’s not like I ever talk to you about it. Or anyone, for that matter. You’re not special, Dean; I’m not singling you out for some kind of silent treatment while I run my mouth off to everyone else. I don’t like to talk about it. End of. Even Graham. You know how he knows? My uncle told him. Sure, he asked that I fill in some gaps for him when I arrived, which seemed fair; but I don’t sit him down and have big old heart-to-hearts with him. It’s convenient that he’s aware, he’s there when I need him to tell people to piss off.” He looks pointedly at Dean. “That’s about it. And you know what? It suits me just fine. That’s my decision, not yours. If you feel like it’s coming between us, then that’s up to you. It has nothing to do with the way I feel... I felt for you.”

“Felt? _Felt?_ Are you seriously telling me you feel nothing for me now? After everything? _Everything_ we have been through?”

“After you broke up with me and then rammed you tongue down someone else’s throat just days after? No. Nothing.” Aidan grates.

Dean’s mouth falls open but he flails around the words.

“I don’t believe you,” he whispers as his voice cracks.

 

Aidan remains expressionless but straightens up, flicking his spent smoke to the floor and grinding his boot into the ground.

“Is that everything, Dean?”

 

Dean feels like he is losing this, losing Aidan. Feels like he is fighting to keep his head above water.

“No. No it isn’t.”

He moves in defiantly until his mouth is inches from Aidan’s, staring straight in to his eyes.

“Come back to me.”

Aidan’s eyes widen in surprise at the directness of Dean’s words, but he snorts derisively.

“It doesn’t have to be now, or tomorrow, but I love you, Aidan, and I want to be with you. You have every right, every right to be angry. You can hate me as much as you like right now, but I don’t believe that you truly, whole-heartedly do. You can tell me you never want to see me again; but the thing is, I think you do,” he utters. “I think you’re fucking good at putting on an act. I think you’re hurting - and so you should be. What I did was... horrible. I’ve hurt you and I hate myself for it. I didn’t know I was so narrow-minded but... I guess I am. But if you let me, I will spend every day of my life showing you how much I love you, what you mean to me; until you can find it in yourself to trust me, to love me again. Because I am not walking away from this, Aidan. What we are is too much to throw away. I want the world to have colour in it again. I want to hear you laugh. I made this all wrong. Let me at least have the chance to make it right.”

 

Aidan doesn’t move, but – _there_ \- from this distance Dean sees the sadness in his eyes, sees him falter, and he knows that there is still the faintest flicker of hope. If Aidan really felt nothing at all, he wouldn’t care. Without thinking, Dean closes the gap between them, momentarily pressing his lips to Aidan’s, so softly, not so much of a kiss as a brushing of skin on skin. Aidan jerks back, thunderstruck, but only a few millimetres; still sharing Dean’s breath, his hands balled in his t-shirt, though Dean doesn’t know if he is gripping him out of anger or want. A flash of desire passes across Aidan’s deeply-buried eyes. Almost as if in slow-motion he kisses Dean back, gently considering the rage in him, but his hands still tangle roughly in Dean’s shirt and Dean finds himself being propelled backwards, tripping on his own feet.

 

He doesn’t know if they’re kissing or fighting but then suddenly there’s hands in his hair and hands on his ass and he finds himself shoved up against the wall, Aidan already half hard as he rolls his hips into Deans’, slowly, sinfully; again and again.

“Is this what you want, baby? Hmm? You missed kissing me?”

Aidan tightens his grip on the top of Dean’s thighs and the little fucker actually lifts Dean effortlessly off the ground so he is pinned between the wall and the Irishman.

“You like it when I’m hard for you?”

He’s forgotten how strong Aidan actually is, shocked at how aroused he is at being handled like this despite the cheek of it.

 

Dean instinctively wraps his legs round Aidan’s to keep himself from falling, tilting his head back against the stained brick as he drinks in the feeling of drowning in everything he thought he’d lost, in how much his hips had missed these ones; breathing hard as a ball of heat forms too fast in the pit of his stomach, his cock straining uncomfortably against the zipper of his taut jeans.

“That’s it, darlin’. You want it so bad, I can tell. Do you want to fuck me right here?” Aidan growls low into Dean’s ear.

 

Dean has never heard him like this before, so brazenly controlling, but it’s bloody hot. He moans against Aidan’s throat despite himself. Aidan bites down hard on the tender spot where Dean’s neck joins his shoulder, the place that he knows makes Dean cry out every time. His teeth sting and Dean is sure he’s drawing blood but it feels so unbelievably good, the sensational burn and electric jolt to his groin.

 

Suddenly he is roughly dropped. Aidan grabs him by the shoulders of his jacket and shakes him against the wall, his unexpectant body slamming back against the surface with a dull thud.  

“She get hot for you too, Dean? Huh? You fuck her, did you?”

“What the... Jesus, no, Aid; come on, you know I didn’t.”

“Is this what you do, Dean? Go around talking people into bed until they’re falling all over you, then just leave them by the wayside until it suits you to pick them up again? You like collecting people around you that you just fuck and drop as you please so you can feel better about yourself?”

“What are you-? I don’t –”

“Oh please, Dean. Me. Richard. Even Lee. You didn’t even want to date him, you just wanted to go home with him, you told me yourself.”

“You shut your mouth,” he spits, straining against Aidan’s rough grip. “You know _fuck all_ about Lee.”

“Ach, I know enough about Lee. You spend your whole life pining for something that never was, Dean. Don’t you see? Everything you’ve ever told me about him just makes me realise more and more that the guy was fucking you over. He didn’t love you.

 

Dean is so taken aback that for a moment he can’t even form words.

 

“He had you so far under his thumb. You can’t see it even now. He controlled you, he didn’t want to live with you, he was stringing you along. Made your decisions for you. Made you less than I thought you had the potential to be, at least before you pulled this little stunt. He was clearly a twat and you were blind. You’re in love with the ghost of the _idea_ of someone.”

 

Dean can’t say he was planning on punching Aidan, but equally he doesn’t think Aidan saw it coming either. His nose explodes with a crunch and blood sprays across his shirt. Dean is released with a painful yelp as Aidan clutches at his face, eyes wide with shock; and for a moment Dean wonders if he sees a calculation flicker across Aidan’s eyes, an assessment of precisely how hard he should go at Dean to pay him back for lashing out, but in the end he only steps backward, breathing thickly through his mouth.

 

“You’re so wrong. You don’t even know how far off you are. You know _nothing_ about us,” Dean pants, his voice shaking. “Looks like I was wrong about one thing though, doesn’t it?”

He yanks his jacket back up across his shoulders and pushes past the bleeding man without looking him in the eye.

“Seeya, Aidan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, your kind kudos and lovely, always so-appreciated comments.


	21. Lacuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lacuna (n.) A blank space, a missing piece
> 
> Guys - this has been a hard one to write but your comments have been absolutely inspirational and I'm continually blown away by the depth you're finding in this! In particular I'd like to thank Lionsmane and Iscalibtra but I have to dedicate this chapter to the brilliant MarigoldVance for your helping me make it happen. A thousand thank yous!

Dean is woken by low clattering noises from the small kitchen area, the heavenly smell of bacon and coffee wafting towards him. He smiles and wriggles further under the soft cover, not ready to wake up yet, luxuriating in his laziness. He wriggles his toes in warm comfort and drags the blanket up over his head, listening to the muffled, lovely sound of the low voice singing.

 

_...We're caught in a trap_  
_I can't walk out_  
_Because I love you too much, baby..._

He imagines the head nodding as he sings, morning light catching dishevelled hair. Bare feet shuffling across the floor.

 

 _...Why can't you see_  
_What you're doing to me_  
_When you don't believe a word I say...?_

 

He’s drifting back to sleep when he feels a soft weight dent the mattress next to his knees.

“Knock, knock.”

Dean can hear him grinning through the sheets between them. He plays along.

“Who’s there?”

“Lettuce.”

“Lettuce?” Dean snorts. _Dork_. “Lettuce who?”

“Lettuce in, it’s fucking freezing out here!”

Aidan dives under the covers faster than Dean can hold them down and suddenly there’s icy hands on Dean’s bed-warm stomach and he yells, making Aidan laugh harder. Aidan wriggles in until he’s in the blanket tent too; legs tangled, tips of noses touching. Dean squirms against the cold body above him but Aidan keeps him pinned in place with a wolfish grin.

“You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?” he chuckles.

“An idiot that made you breakfast,” Aidan purrs, moving his mouth along the length of Dean’s neck and down his chest.

“Oh god, what did I do to deserve that? I thought you were a terrible cook?” he hums as Aidan moves lower across his abdomen, raking his fingers through the trail of caramel curls.

“Oh no, I’m a man of many talents.”

“Hmm, is that right?” Dean gasps, all his attention on Aidan’s wet red mouth, his head now level with his hips; willing him just a little further, just a little lower...

Aidan smiles wickedly. Takes his time.

He settles himself between Dean’s thighs. He flicks his tongue across the head of Dean’s cock and Dean can’t help but cry out, bucking upwards. Aidan responds with eager enthusiasm, swallowing Dean whole. Enough suction to make him groan, enough of a tease to pull him back out again. Tight lips, slippery hands tugging his balls just _uhh_ \- and working round to grab his ass, not in, but almost. Pressure just enough to drive him wild. Fucking bastard has got much too good at this, much too quickly. Knows exactly how to make Dean sweat. He works his mouth around Dean, in no hurry to out him out of his misery; grinding into the bedsheet in an attempt to get some friction for himself.

Dean grabs a handful of wild hair.

Aidan moans.

Dean’s lost.

 

His body arches and Dean wakes with a start as he comes hard, hot mess streaking his sweatpants. A wedge of late-morning sun is cringing through the window and half blinds him as he lies there panting heavily, torn between horror and bliss, trying desperately to get his bearings.

 _Well, that’s just fantastic_.

He winces as he sits, peeling off his sticky clothes and flinging them angrily across the room. He scrubs at his face to try and bring himself round but he’s struggling. How can it have felt so real?

 

He’s sick of it. Sick of the whole damn lot of them. Sick of Aidan, sick of Adam, sick of Richard and his goddamn self-righteousness; sick of himself and his stupid dishonourable body making him come in his sleep like a fucking teenager, getting hot over a man that hours earlier had stamped on his heart. He’s sick of wanting Aidan, sick of not having him. Part of him wishes he could close his eyes and keep dreaming. At least there, none of this had ever happened.

 

To say that Richard had been less than impressed at him returning late and empty-handed would be an understatement. He’d accosted him in the hallway, but Dean had pushed angrily past in an attempt to reach his room without meeting the other man’s eyes.

 

 _“Hey!” Richard yells, stopping Dean cold._ _“What the fuck, Dean? I’ve been worried about you. Where have you-”_

_“Leave it,” he growls, but Richard catches hold of the hand that he’s been subconsciously rubbing, the red ridge of his knuckles glowing against the pale skin of his fingers._

_“You’ve been gone hours. Are you hurt? What have you done?”_

_Dean yanks his hand away and tries once more to duck around Richard before the stinging tears that he knows are building actually spill their way down his cheeks._

_“It’s nothing. I said leave it.”_

_“It doesn’t look like nothing. Looks like you hit something. Like a-”_

_“Aidan. Alright?" he bursts. " I fucking hit fucking Aidan.”_

_The tears come anyway but Richard is so stunned that this time he lets Dean go and watches as the door slams shut in his face._

_Dean screws his body into a tight ball on the bed as the sharp words fly through the door._

_“Fine! Screw you then!”_

He limps to the bathroom and flicks on the shower as hot as he can handle it. He bows his head under the torrent, ears roaring. Leaning forward, hands flat against the cool slate, he lets the shower wash away the mess and the pounding of his heart. He wonders if he stands here long enough if the weight in his chest will flow away down the plug hole too, taking all his indecision with it. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. He’d gone to bed thinking about Lee, but clearly his mind has gone somewhere else without his permission.

He’s tried hating Aidan, but he doesn’t, and can’t. What he’d said had stung Dean so profoundly he hadn’t thought twice about hitting him, but now that he’s had time to calm down he knows what he did was wrong; even if Aidan’s words have cut a hole right through him. That he dared to attack Lee knowing full well exactly how Dean feels about him is almost unthinkable. He wonders if he really knows Aidan as well as he’d thought. He’s never seen this side of him, this swirling rage, the bitter low-blows that fall from his mouth. The fantastical, almost-believable act of coldness that he managed to put on right until the last moment. And yet – and yet, even in the face of all this, Dean still feels like in some way he has been given what he deserved. He is the one that has wronged Aidan again and again. He can’t forget the look on his face as Dean had seen him in the bar with Olivia, like he’d shattered into a million pieces right there and then. He could see it pouring off him in the alleyway last night – the effort it had taken him to be so distant. He knows that this isn’t really who Aidan is.

 

Dean wipes soap from his eyes and shuts off the flow. His gaze falls to the narrow shelf where Lee’s bottles used to sit, and he stands rooted to the spot, dripping as his skin forms goose bumps in the fading heat. He can’t for the life of him work out why Aidan had said it. Had he resented Lee’s presence in Dean’s life all along? He had always thought that, if anyone, Aidan would be more understanding, more compassionate about his situation, given the loss of his own family.

 

Dean has already admitted to himself that he feels guilty that Lee takes up a place in his heart that he sometimes wishes he could give to Aidan; but the simple fact of the matter is that he _does_ , and he probably always will. It’s not even that he’s told Aidan that much about Lee; a few snippets here and there, vague mentions of moments they’d shared, and a few more about how Dean has simply missed having him in his life; but for the most part he tries to avoid talking about the intimacies of their relationship so that Aidan doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

 

Quite how he has come to the conclusion that Lee was stringing him along he doesn’t know. He knows that Aidan would understand precisely the effect that saying it would have on Dean. How much it would hurt. He struggles to bring himself to believe that he would do it merely for a kick, or for the simple act of revenge. He yanks his towel down from the rail and folds it around himself, scrubbing furiously at his hair with his hand as though he might shake all thoughts from his head; but even after he is done the gnawing feeling that had been chewing him up as he’d sat for hours gripping the wheel of his parked car the previous night is still there.

_Then why did he say it at all?_

 

* * *

 

Dean gets in his car and drives down unfamiliar roads until the petrol light comes on. He pulls over to the side of the road and gets out on to the deserted verge, where he retches. Even the contents of his stomach don’t want to keep him company. He slumps on the bonnet and watches the furious technicolor sunset.

 

The air is dusty and stillness swells within him. He feels his isolation so acutely. He misses talking. His tongue feels heavy with disuse in his mouth, sentenced as he is to solitude by Aidan and seemingly everyone else in this damn town.

 

He links his fingers together and tries to imagine Aidan’s hand in his instead of his own; but they are too small, too wood-worn and the illusion is fleeting. He bangs on the over-heated metal in anguish.

 

Richard doesn’t come for hours and hours. He’s knows he’s made him wait on purpose.

 

* * *

Time passes as days run into each other, the sun rising and setting in time with the sway of Dean’s emotions. He loves Aidan. He despairs of him. He picks up his phone to call him time after time. He never wants to see him again.

He’s stuck.

He hurts.

Is this it, then? How they finally part ways?

 

He thinks about drinking himself stupid, but that has only ever caused him more problems than it’s solved.

 

He’d worried the whole time they were together about Aidan leaving, but he wonders now for the first time what is stopping _him_ from running away; from leaving everything Dean has known, everything he has and everything he has made for himself behind; starting as new as Aidan had. Going somewhere, nowhere, being someone else.

Only that he knows it isn’t the answer. Knows that all of this will only follow him.

 

Dean understands now why hurricanes are named after people.

 

* * *

 

The storm has been building for days. The unseasonable sharp heat gives way to a sluggish humidity, the air groaning with the weight of it. Everything feels tense, too tightly strung.

The static charge in the atmosphere makes every surface crackle. An electric whine buzzes in Dean’s ears, and the hairs on his arms stand on end as he works furiously in his shed. The walls creak as the wind picks up abruptly, scattering paper-dry leaves against the windows. He looks out to see the unnatural glow of the violet sky, the ominous low stripes of gunmetal cloud striking across the landscape. A chorus of neighbourhood dogs starts up as the first low growls of thunder roll in the distance.

 

The plummeting pressure goes straight to his head and leaves him with a grinding headache. Reluctantly, he abandons his project and heads outside into the swirling yard as the first pellets of icy rain begin to fall.

 

As a rule, he has always loved storms. The anticipation, the show, the cool relief afterwards. The smell of fresh wet earth. He remembers when he was young he and his brother would hide under the kitchen table and dare each other to dash out and touch the rattling panes of glass in the back door as the thunder shook them.

 

He watches as the storm gathers pace, clouds pressing in and the tell-tale haze of approaching hail drawing closer. He runs his eyes down the entry to his shed to check that he’s secured it properly, but his eye is caught by the gentle flutter of paper in the breeze, a postcard-sized sheet wedged tightly in a crack at the edge of the doorframe.

 

He plucks it carefully out and holds it between his fingers. He has no idea how long it has been there, though he’d guess a few days given the faded print, the slight watermark on the corner. Quite how he’d missed it as he’d been coming and going he doesn’t know, but then he supposes he hasn’t exactly been looking much beyond himself these last few days.

 

It’s Dean, the only photo he has that he knows Aidan had taken. He’s laughing, so freely and genuinely that for a second he wonders if he is even capable of laughing like that anymore. He closes his eyes as the memory takes him.

 

_“Gimme your camera, then,” Aidan grins as he stands up, shirtless and glowing, stretching his hand out for it._

_“Do you know how to use it? It’s not like using an iPhone.”_

_“Fuck. If only I’d ever had the chance to operate machinery,” he retorts, teeth glinting as he laughs in the late sun. “Can’t be that hard, can it; I mean, you manage.”_

_Dean punches him playfully on the arm, feeling his face fall into the smile that only Aidan can put on it._

_Aidan raises the camera and the shutter clicks._

He rubs the dog-eared print between his fingers, absentmindedly turning it over in his hands. To his surprise there’s a message; a single line, carefully scrawled in a now-familiar looping hand.

 

_Whether I am in it or not, I only didn’t want you to go through life thinking he is the epitome of all you deserve._

He stares at the writing for a long time, his heart as still as his feet as the rain falls unnoticed, a wet bloom spreading across the shoulders of his shirt. He’s caught up in what the photograph says, what it doesn’t. His mind turns over and over, but he is no closer to knowing what to do.

 

A violent flash of lightning splits the sky in two, followed swiftly by an explosive crack almost overhead; forcing him to come around from his thoughts. He pockets the photograph quickly, feeling it crumple against the fabric of his jeans. For a while he watches the dust splash upwards with the force of the fat drops, before turning his face towards the leaden sky. This way, he doesn’t have to think about whether the wetness on his face is rain or the misery of his own idiocy.

 

* * *

 

It rains harder than Dean has ever seen it rain, a curtain of water falling in hard white bullets. He retreats to the shelter of the house before he’s completely soaked but observes the deluge from the window in the living area, watching muddy brown rivulets carve their way down the slope at the front of the house. 

 

He feels Richard enter the room, striding in from his study; his footsteps coming to a quiet halt, unaccompanied by any form of greeting. He feels his eyes on his back as he stands resolutely facing the glass. He weighs the silence in the room as the rain paints rivers on the pane before him.

 

Richard plants his hands shoulder width apart, his head lightly bowed between his shoulders; all his weight pressing down through his fingertips into the kitchen bench beneath them.

“Just so I know, is this mood of yours going to be a permanent fixture around here now? Or are you setting yourself a deadline?”

Dean looks round slowly, coldly and regards Richard out of the side of his eyes.

 

What exactly is it that has changed between them? Changed in Richard? He’s known Dean for years. Knows his propensity to sulks, his quiet stubborn streak. Never minded, never paid him any mind while he’s seeing them out – until now. He’s been there through Dean’s worst – truly, worst times. When he’s felt like he’s nothing but a shell, pieced back together so carefully by the hands that now whiten as annoyance builds within their owner. Richard himself has had his moments. He’s more generous that anyone Dean knows, with his actions and advice and his very nature; but by god if he doesn’t see the world in black and white, and like things done _just_ so, taking himself so very seriously. They’ve always had this understanding, a sort of languid flow around each other that just worked. Played house. Laughed. Put their favourite records on, cooked. This simple domesticity between them, undemanding and uncomplicated. But now – Dean senses that there is an anger in Richard which makes little sense to him, despite his own recent less-than social behaviour.

“I don’t know, Rich; is yours?” Dean counters coolly. 

Richard straightens up as he considers Dean’s response.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Dean turns round fully now, takes a few steps towards the kitchen.

“Do you have _any_ idea what this is like? Do you even have a clue about what is happening here? I’ve lost the man I love. I lost Lee, Richard. And do you know what? I found something again that I never even dreamed of, found something in Aidan that I didn’t even know I could have any more. And guess what? Between the two of us, we have fucked it up so royally that I don’t even know how to-” he cuts himself short as he places his trembling hands on the counter opposite Richard.

“All these _secrets_. All this hiding. Fuck the things we’ve said to each other. Even if I look past all that, which I know I can eventually; do you know what that was like? To love someone and to live in the shadow of something you aren’t supposed to know, something that affects this other person so profoundly but they can’t bring themselves to tell you; to fail to find a way to be together because your past seems hell-bent on destroying your future? No, you don’t; because for whatever bizarre reason you refuse to let anyone else into your life. It’s alright for you, isn’t it? Nothing like this ever happens to you. All this because for once I actually kept my mouth shut.”

 

“For god’s sake, Dean! Will you damn well stop?” Richard yells, and Dean falls silent, taken by surprise at the force of his interjection. “Don’t think that you’re the only person in the world who knows what it’s like to keep a secret.”

Dean blinks fast, unsure of what Richard is trying to say.

“Jesus. I didn’t... I don’t want to tell you like this,” Richard whispers.

Dean closes his eyes, inhales. His chest fills with a quiet dread.

“Tell me what?”      

He barely says it. Dean opens his eyes and Richard looks so desperate.

“Lee.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re wrong,” he grates, his head reeling as he takes in what Richard has just told him. A few short sentences, enough to unravel it all. “You’re making this up.”

Even as he says it he knows it doesn’t sound right. His words drip like tears from the desperate straws they cling on to. He can’t think of a single reason on earth why Richard would be telling a lie.

“Dean...” Richard holds out his hand towards him as he shakes his head. Richard is usually so steady, so calm, but he looks stricken and his voice wavers. “I wish I was.”

 

He feels sick as Aidan’s words from the alleyway echo in his head.

_...the guy was fucking you over. He didn’t love you... He controlled you, he didn’t want to live with you, he was stringing you along. Made your decisions for you._

 

“You knew? You _knew?_ You didn’t tell me?”

“No! Yes. I mean, God, Dean... I only found out for sure a week or two before... before he died.” Richard straightens up. “And I couldn’t tell you after that, could I? How the hell do you think that would have sounded? And then... it didn’t seem to matter. I thought you’d be better off not knowing. He just wasn’t _here_ anymore, either way. I thought... I thought maybe it better than you continued loving him for everything you thought he was, and hoped that you could one day move on.”

Dean is silent as he takes it all in.

“Who?” he asks quietly.

“Sorry?” Richard looks confused.

“Who with? Who was he with?”

“Christ, Dean, I don’t know. From what I gather it... It wasn’t just the one.”

Dean sinks into the chair behind him and covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t know if he wants to cry or puke or hit something.

“What the actual fuck?” he whines softly into his palms. “How - how did you find out?”

 

Richards falters. He presses his lips together until they are a thin white line, as if trying to keep words from spilling out of his mouth. In the end he sighs deeply as he relents.

“I saw him. I went back to the office one night; I’d forgotten some papers. He was there, there was someone... on the desk... and Lee, ahh...” He stammers and flushes and doesn’t finish.

“Oh god, ohh...” Dean groans as he wrinkles his face in disgust.

He feels used. Furious. Stupid. Tears burn under his eyelids.

“I should’ve stopped him, stepped in. Done _something_ ,” Richard continues quietly, “But – well I didn’t, alright? I was bloody shocked and I just left. I did confront him though, Dean. I did, after.”

 

Dean looks up a little and sniffs.

“And?”

“I told him he needed to tell you or I would. And do you know what? He laughed. So I... I hit him.”

Dean can’t help but crack a tiny smile through his tears. The idea of ice-cool Richard punching anyone is ridiculous in the least, but he is heartened by the fact he knows how strong he is under all those perfectly tailored clothes. He hopes it fucking hurt.

“Good.”

 

He remembers. A grey-blue bruise curving along the ridge of Lee’s cheekbone, just a few weeks before he’d died.

_“What did you do, babe? Looks sore.”_

_“Had a collision with an idiot. Nothing to worry about. Wanna kiss it better?”_

“I think he’d...” Richard winces, “From what he implied, he’d pick people up on nights when you were working.”

 _It makes sense now_ , Dean thinks. Lee’s flat. The way he refused to move in with Dean. Dean loves working at night, the tightly drawn-in darkness somehow making him more productive; but Lee had loved going out, and Dean hadn’t ever seen a reason for Lee not to go without him. How many nights had Lee spent there without him? At least one, maybe two a week? His stomach drops when he thinks of the implications of all his absences.

 

Dean lets out a breathy curse as he tugs at his earlobes. Suddenly he is stuck with a physical pain, a stab in the heart. On top of everything, everything with Aidan, now this. How could Lee have _done_ this to him?

 

What saddens him most is that he almost expected it. Since his argument with Aidan, he’s been going over and over his relationship with Lee, searching for reasons why Aidan would say what he’d said. He’d thought Aidan was trying to hurt him but he knows that deep down he isn’t a spiteful person. Maybe, maybe he’d been trying to help after all; in a stupid, clumsy way. He thinks of the scrawl on the back of the photograph burning through his pocket. Aidan’s words mean so much but what he doesn’t say is that he’s sorry. Dean understands now that it’s not that he doesn’t wish he couldn’t take back the hurt; but he’d meant what he’d said, and retracting the words isn’t something he is willing to do.

 

He’d been ready to accept that maybe his relationship with Lee hadn’t been what he’d once thought. He’d begun to wonder if maybe Lee had felt quite the same as he had, but he hadn’t expected him to go this far. Had Lee really been so cold? Or maybe Dean had just made it too unbearable to stay.

 

“Am I really so fucking unloveable?” Dean almost wails. He feels like the ground he has been standing on all this time has just revealed itself to be only semi-solid; like he has no idea what is and isn’t real any more. “Do you think he even loved me?”

“Oh Deano, you’re not...” Richard sighs, “I think he loved you. To the best of his capacity. Which was so, so much less than you deserved. But you can’t doubt everything you had. You loved him, that was real.”

 

Dean shakes his head slowly.

“Aidan was right. I was in love with the idea of someone. I didn’t know him at all, did I?”

“Maybe not. Not like you thought you did. That doesn’t mean that no-one ever loved you, though.”

“Aidan doesn’t. Not after everything I’ve done.”

“Aidan... Aidan _does_. And I... I love you.”

“That isn’t the same, we’re just friends...” Dean starts, but his words fail as he looks up and catches sight of Richard's expression. He looks at the table with unnecessary scrutiny, not at Dean. He looks sad, defeated.

“R-Rich?” he starts, but the question he is going to ask answers itself on Richard’s face before it leaves Dean’s lips.

“But – but you... we... we broke up... we’re _friends_...” Dean blurts.

Richard looks up almost apologetically.

“Don’t you have any idea how lucky you are to be in love with someone who loves you back? And look at the pair of you, too stubborn and too stupid to see that it’s all that really matters. Fighting over things that really, _really_ – in the grand scheme of things, just don’t matter.”

 

“Wait, I... I don’t understand. All this time? _All this time?”_ Dean is flailing now. If he’d thought nothing made sense just a few moments ago, now he has been truly turned upside down.

 

Richard holds his palms up in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I... well, for a time I thought you knew, but... I’ve tried not to. I know you don’t feel the same. But for me, it never went away. Why do you think there’s no one else? It’s always been you.”

 

Dean is blindsided. He thinks back to when they’d first met; awkward, giggling fumbles on Richard’s blanket-draped sofa, both too poor at the time to afford much more than a Chinese takeaway to call a date. They’d not even slept together before Dean decided it had felt too strange, like falling for a brother, maybe; that Richard was destined to be a friend, and not more. He remembers sitting down, talking about it over cups of tea, so _adult;_ and Richard in calm agreement. He’d thought they were happy, that they could be content as friends. How has he missed it? Pieces fall into place as he thinks of how Richard has always had his back, watched for him when he’s stayed out late; the way he’d roll into Dean’s warm body on the rare occasion that they shared a bed in what Dean had always assumed was nothing more than platonic companionship.

 

“Is this why you asked me to live with you? Is this why – is this why you’ve been so moody lately? Because I’m in love with someone else? For God’s sake!” Dean yells it without thinking. “Is there anything else that anyone would like to tell me? What the FUCK is going on in my life? Is there some kind of pact between everyone to keep me in the dark about absolutely fucking _everything_? _All this time?”_

 

“I’m not trying to keep secrets from you. I wanted you to be happy, Dean. That’s all.” Richard sighs. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I had thought... maybe when you moved I here, that we might...” he clears his throat, but continues softly. “But instead you met Lee. You must know he and I never really saw eye to eye. But you were _happy_. To see you in love, at least, was a kind of happiness for me; so I said nothing, did nothing. After... after he died... it wasn’t like I’d planned to make a move, Dean. That was never my agenda, you must understand that. I suppose I hoped that eventually you might realise just what we could have together. I know that you and I have always been close, that you’ve looked to me for support, advice. Friendship. I’ll admit to you now that I’d hoped over time it would grow into more. We had more than that once. Maybe we just needed to give it another go. But then... then you met Aidan.” He gulps. “And this time I knew I was defeated. I’ve never seen you like this. I’m not moody because you love him. I’m annoyed with you because you refuse to see what you have right in front of you. I’ve tried to help you and at every turn you’ve gone and made it worse. You two are just... Christ; if you two can’t make it work then what hope is there for the rest of us? You boys are so bloody obstinate. But I’ll be damned if you haven’t shown me what it’s all supposed to be about in between all your wallowing.”

Dean gasps, Richard’s revelation striking straight through him.

“You say I have no idea what it’s like to live with secrets, but I know very well what it’s like. So instead of asking you, I’m telling you; will you fucking stop all of this and go and _fix_ it? Silence is never the answer, and there is no such thing as ignoring it and hoping it will go away. I know he’s said this and you’ve done that but it’s doing my head in. It doesn’t _matter_ , Dean. You’ve found each other, and I know that you both still feel every ounce of love that you-”

 

But Dean has stopped listening, his attention entirely elsewhere.

The television that had been flickering in the background all this time captures him completely, and Richard is forced to turn and look in annoyance at precisely what is more important than this proclamation that has been so difficult for him. He opens his mouth in consternation, amazed that Dean can have paid so little heed to him pouring his heart out, but as he catches sight of the screen he finds himself walking forward, squinting to get a better look.

“Isn’t...” he breathes as he manoeuvres himself closer, positioning himself directly behind Dean’s heaving shoulders. “Isn’t that...?”

 

The aerial footage leaves no doubt as to the extent of the destruction. The camera pans high above the mountain pass, streaked with ugly grey-brown scars. Trees lie snapped like broken matchsticks beneath splays of rubble that flow from the peaks like rivers.

 

_Three hikers were rescued from high country this afternoon after storms caused catastrophic landslides across the Aromaunga Valley..._

The newsreader intones the information calmly, impersonally; but Dean’s heart feels like it might escape through his ribcage as he frantically scans the footage, hoping against hope that he won’t see what he thinks he is about to. The camera pans down from a cleft in the ridge line – a notch that he knows well, a memory etched into his mind. Aidan, so relaxed; so fantastically beautiful in that moment, smiling below his glasses and steering them up and away in the helicopter into what Dean had thought might well be the edge of the world. His stomach knots as he recalls the blankets of scree draping the mountain side, how unstable it had looked. Of how they’d scrambled to keep their footing while they scaled the top of the peak, sending cascades of stone downward toward the valley floor with every step.

 

_Rescue crews were alerted to the unfolding disaster by emergency flares which the group were carrying with them. Access and contact within the region is notoriously difficult..._

 

“Is he there?”

“I don’t... I don’t know,” Dean stutters, the images on screen blazing into his terrified eyes. “He’s... I haven’t called him, but he was here a few days ago, maybe – h-he left a note; I don’t know, Richard. Oh, god. What if he’s-”

Dean doesn’t say anything more. The camera pulls out wide to follow the torrent of debris to its resting place, a jagged mound of splintered wood and earth filling the head of a lake, _Aidan’s_ lake; and he could swear he feels his heart stop beating as his eyes roam over what he is sure is the right place, and as he sinks to his knees he feels Richard’s hands slide under his armpits just before he hits the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my. 
> 
>  
> 
> The song Aidan sings in Dean's dream is Suspicious Minds by Elvis Presley.


	22. Psithurism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Psithurism (n.) The sound of wind through trees
> 
> Thanks so much to all for reading and commenting, as always. Hopefully you're all keeping up. The next few chapters will be shorter but updated more frequently. I'd hate to leave you on too big of a cliffhanger!

“Come _onnnn,”_ Dean yells into the phone tucked precariously under his ear, reaching down awkwardly to yank on his boots. He listens to the voicemail pick up the line yet again and groans as he disconnects, flinging the handset onto the bed beside him so he can work at his laces faster.

“Still no answer?” Richard is pacing the room as Dean hurries to get dressed.

“No. Straight to voicemail. But that doesn’t mean much,” he admits as he scrabbles for his second shoe. “We haven’t exactly been very mature lately. I don’t know if his phone is just off or if he’s blocked my number, or if...”

The look he gives the other man finishes the sentence better than he could with words. He’s left a message already, of course. He only hopes that he’s come across desperate enough that Aidan would understand, and even if he’s sitting happily at home eating cereal straight out of the box that he might be driven to at least call him back and put his mind at ease when he finally gets it.

 

Richard throws open the wardrobe and rifles for Dean’s coat.

“You know as well as I do that the footage wasn’t clear enough to know if it missed the cabin or not. But even if it has been hit - you said it yourself, remember; there’s no guarantee he’s even there, you know for a fact he’s been in town recently. You said he left you a note?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, and for a moment he lets his head hang between his shoulders, feeling the weight of all this pressing down on him. “But if I’m honest I don’t know... what it means. ‘Whether I’m in it or not’; that doesn’t exactly mean that he wants to be, does it? Or is he just doing his usual thing where he thinks I don’t want to see him anymore?”

Richard holds his hands out in a ‘you know him better than me’ gesture.

“You’ll just have to go and find out, won’t you.”

He holds Dean’s waterproof jacket in his outstretched arm. Dean goes to take it but withdraws his hand at the last minute, frowning at the material in Richard’s grasp.

“I’m not wearing that.”

Richard’s brow creases in confusion but as he inspects the jacket more closely he realises what Dean is implying. He chucks Lee’s coat unceremoniously back onto the floor of the cupboard and shuts the door.

“It’s fine,” Dean huffs as he rushes to the en-suite. “Sounds like it’s stopped raining anyway, I’ll just go without.”

Richard peers out the window and sees that Dean is right. The downpour has stopped as quickly as it started; and the lid of threatening clouds is starting to lift, cracks of hazy sunlight appearing on the horizon.

Dean reappears and tugs on a plaid shirt that he’s scooped off the floor. He grabs his keys from where he’s left them on his desk and marches out of the door, but he catches the frame with his hand and stops, turning slowly to face the man he’s left standing in the middle of his room.

 

“What will I do... if... he’s...?” He bites his lip and creases his eyebrows in desperation.

Richard moves towards him and settles his hands on Dean’s shoulders; the warm, calming weight forcing Dean to take a deep breath.

“We ruin our lives asking, ‘what if?’. Don’t speculate, just go. I’m sure he’s just fine. You going to his house first?”

Dean gives a curt nod.

“And if he _is_ there... How am I going to get him to listen to me this time? I’ve tried already, and he... well, it didn’t end well, did it?”

Richard takes a step back.

“Because this time, you mean it. I see it in you. Things have changed, Dean. He will too.”

 

Before Dean can react, Richard takes his face between his hands and swiftly leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. He pulls away almost as quickly, but his hand lingers on Dean’s face for just a second longer, and in that time Dean sees everything that Richard can’t say; and he feels a stab in his chest that Richard has been holding on for him all this time, that in doing this he is finally letting him go, and he aches that he is watching his friend’s heart break.

 

For the briefest second he imagines how their lives could have been, how it might have been possible for them to come to know a kind of contentment together. He knows, though, that it would have only been embers, a pale imitation of the fire he has tasted.

“I’m sorry, Rich,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Maybe if I’d known, maybe things would have been different...”

“Things are exactly how they are supposed to be,” Richard utters as his mouth turns upward into something resembling a shaky smile. “Now for god’s sake, go get him.”

 

* * *

 

Graham opens the door and almost immediately shuts it in Dean’s face, but this time Dean is ready for him and manages to shove his foot in the jamb.

“Where is he?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Don’t be a dick, Graham. Is he here?”

“None of your business.”

Dean shoves the door roughly back and it flies out of Graham’s hands, leaving him surprised and quickly angering.

“ _Is he here?”_

Dean takes a step forward and tries to crane his head around Graham’s bulk, as if to check if Aidan is standing in the background.

“No he fucking isn’t. I don’t know where he is, before you ask. Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Didn’t I tell you to never come round here again? You’ve done enough, he doesn’t want to see you. Neither do I.”

Dean ignores him.

“I need to know where he is. Is he at the cabin?”

“I’ve just told you, you little-”

“Haven’t you seen the fucking news?” Dean’s voice breaks, and he sounds high-pitched and raw.

Graham stills. There must be something in Dean’s expression, some conveyance of this desperate panic that he feels rising too fast inside himself that stops the other man in his tracks.

“No... why?” Graham hesitates a moment, then slowly opens the door enough for Dean to come in.

 

It doesn’t take long to convince Graham that the cabin has to be checked. Graham pounds into the hallway and throws open the closet, tugging on his jacket and grabbing a backpack.

“Wait... what are you doing?”

Graham looks at Dean in surprise as he stuffs various items inside the bag.

“You didn’t think I’d be letting you go alone, did you?”

“I... I don’t know. Don’t you trust me, or something?”

“For god’s sake, lad. What if you need help?”

Dean hasn’t exactly thought of that.

“Anyway. I don’t even know if he’s there; and _if_ he is, no doubt he heard it coming. If he’s fine, which I’m sure he is; I wouldn’t put it past him to knock you out after your recent behaviour, and I’ll not be stopping him. So you’ll be wanting someone to carry your sorry arse back home, won’t you?”

Obviously, Aidan hasn’t mentioned his leaving the note. Dean grimaces but doesn’t say anything. He latches on to Graham’s words.

_...IF he’s fine..._

“I’ll drive,” Dean mutters.

“Like hell you will.”

Graham shoves the rucksack and a matte black helmet into Dean’s arms and bundles him out of the door, slinging his legs across his motorbike and indicating to Dean that he should hop on the back as the engine roars to life.

 

* * *

 

Dean has never been on a motorbike, but he can’t say he’s keen to do it again in a hurry. Graham drives like a maniac and Dean eventually surrenders and wraps his arms tightly around Graham’s midsection, not trusting himself to stay upright gripping only the tiny handle behind him. The bike weaves along the forest road, slippery from the rain and deserted once they are past the limits of the town. The returning late afternoon light grows thinner as the trees crowding down the shallow slopes on either side of the road become denser, branches twisting wildly together to form a wall of red-tinged greenery stretching away as far as Dean can see. He closes his eyes as he tries to block out the smell that pervades his nostrils, cutting through the leather of Graham’s jacket pressed close beside his face and the sour tang of wet asphalt; the unmistakeable smell of fallen leaves, of rotting vegetation signalling the turn of the season; the encroaching scent of death.  

 

Graham pulls the bike off the road onto the entrance to the rough track and Dean’s stomach lurches when he spots a dirty black pickup nestled between a pair of pines. He’d been hoping against hope that Aidan’s car wouldn’t be here. The engine rumbles to a stop and Dean leaps off the back, striding to the car and placing his hand on the bonnet. He pulls it away and looks back to find Graham searching him with sharp blue eyes.

“Cold,” he replies to the unspoken question.

 

* * *

  

Their feet fall into rhythm, heavy and hard. The path is slick with mud from the deluge, and Dean has to concentrate to stop himself from sliding. Behind him, Graham is silent, only the pounding of his boots and the slight increase in his rate of breathing alerting Dean to his continued presence. He walks with his head down, focusing on the path ahead so that the images of rivers of rock etched into his mind won’t linger. He tries to imagine Aidan sitting thoughtfully atop a pile of rubble, chain-smoking and wistfully taking in the damage to his fallen kingdom.

 

The sounds of footsteps at his back ceases and he pauses momentarily, looking over his shoulder to see Graham retying the lace of his boot. Knowing it will only cause more discord between them if he continues alone he waits, but turns back to face the front, allowing his arms to drop to his sides as he tilts his head upwards to take in the canopy above them. A light wind sways the trees and beads of rainwater collect at the end of the pointed leaves, sending a cascade of fat droplets that explode on the pulpy ground. He hasn’t been able to place what exactly it is that feels so off about this place he has come to know so well, aside from the nagging doubt in his chest; but now he realises as he casts his gaze around that the forest is quiet too, all traces of life seemingly extinguished and replaced with an unnatural, near-deafening silence, punctuated only by the unintelligible whisper of the breeze.

* * *

 

“Why?” Dean asks between breaths as he feels the ground beneath his feet start to slope upwards, picking up the pace as they draw nearer to the vantage point he knows awaits at the top of the hill.

“Eh?” Graham grunts from over his shoulder.

He slows down just enough for Graham to draw level with him.

“Why do you hate me so much? From the second you knew Aidan and I were getting involved you’ve gone out of your way to make it difficult. I think the least you could do is tell me why. Is it – is it because I’m a guy? Because that’s really none of-”

Graham growls beside him.

“Fuck no, Dean; I couldn’t care less about that.Can't say I saw it coming, but love is love.”

“Then...?”

“I don’t hate you,” he sighs. Dean glances at him out of the side of his eyes and sees that he looks softened, sad; the first time Dean has seen a chink in his armour.

“I had a son.”

Dean looks properly now. He waits for Graham to continue as he swipes perspiration from his forehead.

“Technically still have, as far as I know, but...” He breaks off as his foot slides on the slippery path. “I was married young, too young. Still a boy myself, really. My ex-wife and I, we... it didn’t end well. At all. She took Andrew away, he was only two. She moved to Canada, I heard, and I never saw them again. I couldn’t bear to stay in the end so I moved around a bit. Spent some time in Ireland. Met Aidan’s uncle,” he adds pointedly. “Ended up over here and never looked back, really. I tried to get in touch, over and over but... well.” He smiles ruefully. “They’d be the same age, you know. Exactly the same. Born a week apart. Sometimes I think I forget that he isn’t Andrew. I let myself get... carried away. I’m sorry that I’ve spoken harshly to you, Dean. I haven’t been able to protect my own son. I don’t even know if there’s anything in life that he needs protecting from. But Aidan...”

Dean nods, understanding.

“I love my son, and I love Aidan like he was my own. He changed, you know. The day he came home from what must have been when he rescued you from the lake, I could see it in his face. Something had shifted, and I was scared for him. I didn’t want him to fall back into the hole he’d only just seemed to have dug himself out from. What I didn’t understand then is that it wasn’t necessarily things changing for the worse.”

He fixes Dean with his eyes, and Dean only now appreciates the deep, searching clarity of them, almost like he’s never really looked at him before.

“I think I was wrong about you, Dean. I can’t say I approve of everything you’ve done but it’s between you and Aidan and it wasn’t right for me to make it my business. I made things far worse by telling you what happened to him, but I was only trying to help him by making you understand. I think sometimes I’m trying to compensate for all the time I was never allowed to care about someone like he was a son, but Aidan is far old enough to fight his own battles and I need to learn to stop. I’ve blamed you for things that have sometimes been beyond your control and that wasn’t fair. Despite all the crap you’ve brought down on yourselves though – because fuck me if you two haven’t done things the hard way - I know Aidan is a better man for having known you and I’ll say with near certainty that you oughtn’t give up just yet.”

 

Dean is nearly speechless, reeling in what almost amounts to an apology from the bear of a man striding alongside him. He starts to formulate a reply, but as the sentence hangs on his lips the trees part abruptly and bright light swells up to greet them, the vista opening up before them as the path takes its sudden turn around the edge of the lake.

 

He hears Graham grind to a halt beside him, realises his own feet have done the same without his bidding. The scene before them steals his breath. What was once an inlet around which the trees snuck down to the edge of the water is now a wide, gravel-filled mound, punctuated with trees stripped of their leaves and branches snapped like dry twigs. His mouth falls open, the last of the settling dust stealing in to coat his tongue.

 

The scar down the valley beyond them is a wide brown blemish that scrapes down from the skirts of the high peaks towering above them down along what was originally the river, the ugly trail of destruction vastly at odds with the calm swathes of lush greenery untouched on either side. The head of the lake is now twenty metres further south than it used to be, displaced by the tonnes of debris that has crashed in from the unstable slopes.

Dean finds his hand shakily grasping the clammy sleeve of Graham’s jacket, his hand twisting until it can squeeze the solid bicep beneath, needing desperately to anchor himself to something real, something living. Graham’s own hand come to rest between Dean’s shoulder blades as the taller man gapes, neither of them able to tear their eyes away, searching and searching for something, anything recognisable in the mangled heap before them but finding nothing but earth and rock and the shell of the timber frame rolled onto its side like a lazy dog. Graham stumbles as he bellows, “ _Aidan!”_ , but there is no reply as his voice echoes like a gunshot into nothing; all Dean hears is the gasp of the man he clings to and the quiet rush of wind-ruffled trees as they stand before the spot where the cabin used to be.


	23. Brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brontide (n.) The low rumble of distant thunder
> 
> Possible trigger for claustrophobia in this and the next few chapters, folks...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Handfuls of love to MarigoldVance once again for the cheerleading! And to everyone, as always, your comments and kudos are the reason I keep going; thank you so much.

They move as one, Dean’s feet propelling him forward of their own accord. The scree is maddeningly difficult to cross, and they slide and stumble repeatedly on the loose surface. Dean clutches the padded straps of the bag he carries tightly, his focus only on the dance of his feet and the wreck ahead of him.

 

His brain reels as he wills it to catch up with his legs, quickly assessing the scene as he finally arrives, Graham scrabbling right alongside him. Dean can see now that the cabin has slid perhaps fifteen metres from its original position, but has tilted into what he realises was the notch of the river valley running to the left side of it, the water which once flowed through it now spilling out all around them, a white frothing torrent pushing angrily toward the lake. One side of the cabin appears to be completely wrecked, the landslip blasting through as if it were made of paper; but the remainder of the structure is still largely intact, though the upper floor and roof seem to have fallen in on themselves. The end result is that of a half-buried cave, walls of earth and stone plunging down into the channel carved by the stream, roofed in by sheets of wood panel. Graham hurriedly surveys the immediate area but returns to the spot in which Dean stands, shaking his head.

“He’s not out here, I can’t see him, he’s not here...”

Dean flings the bag he’s been carrying onto the ground, stealing forward with his heart in his mouth. He squints as his eyes flit across the wreckage, scanning for – _what?_ he asks himself _– clothes? A body?_ His knees weaken at the sickening notion and he turns away, forcing himself to breathe deeply and continue.

 

And then. At first, he isn’t sure that his ears aren’t playing tricks on him, but he cranes his head and _there, again –_ over the swirling water he hears a voice. It’s little more than a whimper, but he’d know it anywhere, and an involuntary wail escapes his own mouth because he’s alive, Aidan is only fucking alive; but he’s in there somewhere and now his thoughts turn to finding a way inside, stepping carefully onto the timber frame with his already wet boots. Dean grabs a fallen beam and hauls himself up just enough so that he can peer to the back of the dim space. Graham’s hands delve into the discarded backpack, flinging water bottles aside before pulling out a small torch which he flicks on before tossing it carefully to Dean.

 

A shock of wet dark hair reflects back at him in the light. Aidan is far enough away that Dean only just notices him at first. From this distance he can’t make much out, shielded from view as Aidan is by debris and water, but he sees enough to know that he is still alive, albeit not moving. Dean's eyes flick to a sticky slick on the side of Aidan’s head that shines grimly in the torchlight.

“Aid?” he calls, but the man doesn’t so much as start, and Dean knows he has no choice but to go in and get him.

“ _Aidan!_ ” Graham roars, and starts forward to clamber into the mess of timber, but Dean shoots his arm out across Graham’s stomach like a barrier and raises his finger to his lips, motioning to Graham to be quiet.

When Dean was a boy, he and his Dad would go to his grandfather’s property to help him get rid of foxes. They’d set traps in the evening, and in the morning go round to inspect them. His grandad was a good bloke and instead of killing the animals he’d gather them up and drive them far away to save his chooks. He vividly remembers the way the foxes would look, feral and cowering in their cages; panting, sweating, glazed eyes wild and rolling. He could smell the fear on them, expecting the worst hand that fate could deal them; cornered by these men in their boots.

 

That’s how Aidan looks now. His eyes are glassy, unfocused; though Dean isn’t sure if that’s through terror or the injury he’s sustained. He’s looking straight out in front of himself, and Dean can hear he’s talking under his breath, low and fast, nonsensical words mixed with pleas and swearing and desperate whining. Dean can tell immediately that Aidan isn’t ‘ _there_ ’; knows he is going to have to be extremely careful and collected if he wants to get him back again.

 

Aidan’s breath hitches as he tries to speak. _He’s hyperventilating_ , Dean thinks. He knows he needs to get in there, to calm him down, to get him out of there as fast as he can. He rips off his shirt and ties it round his waist so that he can move better, feeling the immediate chill as the cool air clings to his perspiring skin.

He exhales hard, a deep puff to steel himself, and treads gingerly on the mangled building in front of him. Graham makes to follow him but Dean shakes his head as the wooden beam he steps on groans in protest.

“I’ll do it, Graham. I’m lighter than you. The whole thing might-”

He looks up as what is left of the roof creaks ominously above him. Graham frowns, but then falls back and nods in understanding.

“I’ll go. I’m going. I’ll get help.”

Dean nods and for a brief second he holds his gaze, knowing they’ve finally reached some sort of truce.

“I’ll run it. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Dean,” he asks, sounding suddenly vulnerable as Dean breaks away to face towards Aidan again, “Get him out of there, alright? Just get him out. Whatever it takes. Promise?”

Dean glances back at him over his shoulder. “Promise. Just fucking hurry, ok?”

But Graham is already thundering down the pile of debris, moving as fast as his legs will allow him.

 

Dean braces his hands on the fallen slope of wood above him and shuffles his feet out along the beams, torch clamped between his teeth and boots slipping along the wet timber. Cold spray from the swollen stream hits him relentlessly in the face, and within seconds he is drenched. He moves as fast as he dares, reaching the cavity where Aidan sits without incident. He’s faced with a problem - the way is barred by the ladder to what had once been upstairs, now lying on its side; the gap between it and the roof of the space too low for him to squeeze through. Beneath it the brown water swirls angrily, making it impossible to tell the depth. Though he really doesn’t want to, he drops himself in slowly. It’s cold, but not so much that he can’t adjust quickly, and he thanks whoever is listening to his prayers that winter hasn’t come early this year. To his relief, the water only comes up to his thighs. He grabs the ladder with two hands and ducks underneath it, popping up on the other side just a few feet from Aidan.

 

He guesses they’re in what was the corner opposite the kitchen near the back of the cabin. It’s almost impossible to tell, given how far down the slope the building had moved and the state in which it’s in. His feet grope slowly along the submerged ground, and he feels large chunks of smooth rock mixed in with the splintered fragments of wood. He realises that they must now be in what was the original riverbed. Aidan is in a sitting position, his back resting on a large slab of wood that had once been the wall. A makeshift roof of timber slats and debris from the cabin hangs about half a metre above Aidan’s head. Dean is immediately reminded of the inside of an upturned boat – which, it quickly dawns on him, is precisely the problem.

 

He can only see Aidan from the waist up as his lower body is below the water; but he heaves a sigh of relief to see that other than the gash on his head which glistens darkly he doesn’t seem to have any other major injury. Dean catches his feet on something under the water right next to the trembling man, causing him to stumble and cry out. Aidan seems to stir at the noise but doesn’t look at Dean. He balances the torch on a chunk of wood above him and inches closer, crouching down next the submerged object, moving his face in front of Aidan’s until he can feel his ragged breaths on his skin. Slowly, very slowly, he raises his hands and takes Aidan’s face between them.

“Aidan?”

“ _Pleasepleasejustdon’t... don’tletthem...”_

Aidan sees things that Dean can’t. Despite the chill of the water a sheen of sweat glimmers on his forehead. A red bead of blood blooms on his lip where he bites down on it between his mumbling, an odd contrast to the anaemic hue of his skin. Dean can tell that Aidan is in hell. He can’t help but think that this is some exquisite form of punishment for someone who is terrified of the stuff, a punishment that Aidan doesn’t deserve an ounce of. He keeps his voice soft, not wanting to cause him any further panic.

 

“Aid? It’s Dean.”

“ _...pleaseIcan’t... notlikethis... ohgod... makeitstop...”_

“Aidan. Look at me. Look at me. It’s Dean, Aids. I’m here.”

This time Aidan finally seems to hear him. Like a switch has been flicked, Aidan suddenly realises Dean is in front of him. His mouth falls open and his pale brow lines with confusion.

“D... Dean?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me sweetheart. It’s Dean.”

 

For an awful moment Dean thinks Aidan is going to flip out as he watches every emotion flash across his face. Aidan’s whole body is shaking and Dean can see that his skin is a map of goose bumps. He has no idea how long he has been down here, in the cold and dark.

“Oh... Dean...” Aidan blinks heavily, his eyes protesting the intrusion of the torchlight, reminding Dean of the puzzled mess that Aidan usually resembles in the mornings. “Y- _uhh_... you’re all wet.”

Dean nearly laughs, the only reaction his shocked mind can produce as a knot of emotion thumps him in the heart. He can tell Aidan isn’t quite with him yet.

“Speak for yourself. It’s ok, love. I’ve got you. I found you.”

“W-what are you... how did... how did you know?”

“Just a hunch.” Dean grimaces softly, shifting his boots to get a more stable footing. “I’ve come to help you, alright?” He rubs the pads of his thumbs in gentle circles on Aidan’s cheeks. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

 

At this, Aidan almost starts shaking harder, his breath still coming in shuddering wheezes. Dean places his hand in the middle of Aidan’s chest.

“Slow down, it’s alright. You’re alright. Can you breathe with me?”

He motions for Aidan to take a deep breath in and let it out as slowly as he can. He knows he is going to have to stop him panicking before he can get him to co-operate.

“C... can’t,” Aidan stutters from between clenched teeth.

“Yes you can. Come on. Do it with me. Just look at me. Don’t look at anything else.”

 

Aidan looks up shakily at Dean and dutifully tries to copy Dean’s breathing. Dean stares straight into his eyes, trying to project as much calm as he possibly can.

_God, these eyes._

Unwatered whisky. The cold blue light of the torch makes the amber flecks burn like wildfire. In some of their headier moments, Dean has wondered if the gold is visible to everyone, or if it reflects only him.

How much he wishes he wasn’t looking at them here, like this. The spark is still there in them, but it’s fear and not flame; and Dean has no real idea of what he is doing, what he is going to do to try and light them up again.

 

Bit by bit, Aidan seems to calm a little. He still trembles but less violently now, and he looks around as if he is taking in his surroundings for the first time, as if he is waking up.

“There. There you are.” Dean reassures him. “Are you... are you ok?”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he curses himself.

_Do better, dickhead. Of course he isn’t alright._

He tries to think back to what Aidan did when he rescued Dean from the lake, what he had asked him.

“Are you hurt?” he tries again.

 

He runs his eyes over the cut on Aidan’s head. It starts just above his ear and snakes a few inches around the back. Dean has no way of telling how bad it is other than he knows it’s bleeding, but he vaguely remembers Aidan telling him when he’d fallen down the hill that head wounds bleed a lot anyway and can look worse than they are. He can see that it’s starting to clot anyway, the blood thick and dark through Aidan’s dripping hair, and he hopes that’s a good thing. He takes heart in the fact that Aidan is at least awake and talking.  

 

“Ahh, I don’t... I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. You’re the one that knows about all this medical stuff. I need you to help me a little here, sweetheart. Tell me what to do. Your head... you’ve cut your head. Do I need to worry about that before I move you?”

“Nhh. No. Don’t t-think so.” He sees Aidan trying to rally, to focus his exhausted mind. “Only a bit dizzy. There’s this,” he stammers as he raises his right arm out of the water, his hand dangling uselessly from his wrist at an unnatural angle.

Dean exhales, not realising he’s been holding his breath.

“Ok. Ok,” he says reassuringly, trying to be rational, like Aidan would be, like Aidan always has been for him. “That’s nothing we can’t handle, right? Is there anything else that hurts?”

“I d-don’t... don’t know. Can’t really feel...” Aidan breaks off, screwing his eyes shut.

 

It’s just about the last thing that Dean wants to hear. He has no idea what might have happened to Aidan during the collapse. He knows next to nothing about first aid, but he is sure that not being able to feel anything can’t be good.

“Can’t feel... cold. Too cold. S’all gone numb,” Aidan adds through chattering teeth.

 

Dean heaves a sigh of relief. Cold can be fixed, can’t it? He takes his hand off Aidan’s chest and stands up as best he can, ducking his head in the cramped space above him.

“Come on then. I’m gonna take you home.”

He goes to place his hands under Aidan’s armpits to haul him up, but Aidan just looks stricken and shakes his head frantically.

“That’s j-just it; I c-can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Look, Aidan; I know you and me...” Dean rakes his hand through his damp hair, unable to find the right words. “This isn’t the right time or place, is it. Let’s just get you out of here and we can talk whenever you’re ready, ok? But you don’t have to stay in here anymore. I’m going to help you. Just stand up with me, and we’ll go from there.”

But Aidan doesn’t move. He just looks up at Dean with petrified eyes.

“You think I’m s-sitting here ‘cos I want to?” he wails.

Dean shakes his head in confusion.

“I can’t, Dean. I’m stuck.”


	24. Redamancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redamancy (n) The act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.
> 
> Buckle up, folks. It's a double chapter update so there's two to read straight through. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments. I'm so sorry I haven't had much time to reply. I promise I'm reading them all and they are absolutely spurring me on. You're all fabulous.

Aidan starts to breathe too fast again, choking back sobs as tears spring to his eyes. He scrubs at them with his already wet arm but only succeeds in spreading the moisture across his face. Dean crouches back down next to him, concern carving lines on his forehead.

 

“What do you mean, Aid?” He fights the urge to reach out his hand and stroke back the tendrils of hair clinging to Aidan’s face. “Don’t... don’t cry. Stuck how?”

“My leg.” Aidan grinds the words out through gritted teeth. “An’ I’m not crying.”

 

Dean shakes his head at Aidan’s unrelenting stubbornness as he plunges his hands below the surface, groping blindly down Aidan’s body until he finds his legs. He strikes the submerged object that he’d caught his own feet on and after a moment of fumbling he realises it’s the chimney pipe for the woodstove. It’s not heavy, but it is wedged tightly into the cramped space, either end of the tube burying into the piles of rubble that surround them. He runs his hands carefully down Aidan’s thighs, feeling the faint spasming of the strong muscles, until he reaches what he assumes is his right knee which appears to be jammed tightly in the small space underneath the metal tube, pinned at an awkward angle to the mess of the riverbed below. He gives the pipe a shove, causing Aidan to cry out, but it doesn’t give an inch.

 

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles. “ _Fuck_.” He moves his hands back up Aidan’s leg and tightens his grip around his hamstring as he gives the trapped limb an experimental tug. “Can we maybe just pull it?”

“No!” Aidan pants, his eyes widening to agonised circles, his pupils blown so wide they melt into the irises and turn them black in the dim bubble of torchlight. “P-please. I mean, I tried; Jesus, I tried – I thought I was g-going to rip my leg off, but it’s really stuck, believe me. Please - not again - don’t.”

 

Dean stands up again and looks for something he might use to lever the stove pipe off with. He grabs a sturdy looking length of wood and rams it into the gap underneath, pushing down on it with his whole body, lifting himself up off the ground; but to no avail. The wood only bends and the pipe remains unmoved. He chucks the lever onto the pile of debris around him, grabbing another, thicker one and trying again. Aidan moans in discomfort but his leg remains resolutely jammed.

 

“Fuck!”

Dean growls it this time, flinging the wood aside and scraping his hands through his sodden hair. He wheels around, eyes raking frantically across the dim space in search of anything that might be of use.

“Aid! The Sat Phone!”

He can’t quite believe he hasn’t thought of it until now. After Aidan’s near-miss with the kiwifruit, Graham had insisted they procure a satellite phone and keep it with them at the cabin. Dean had to admit the old bastard had a point. Quite why Aidan hadn’t had one out the in the first place he doesn’t know, but his reply was that he’d only had need of one since Dean and all his calamity arrived in his life.

 

He knows it’s here; remembers tucking it into a drawer for safekeeping a few months previously. He looks at Aidan excitedly, expectantly; but his face falls when he realises that Aidan is, of all things, rocking with a low rolling chuckle.

“If you can f-find it, b-be my guest.” Aidan momentarily raises his arms out of the water in a lopsided shrug, and Dean winces again as he takes in the painful-looking break to his wrist.

 

Dean realises he is right, that any hope of finding it is futile. He tries desperately to rack his brain for another solution, but there is nothing to be done. He glances back towards the faint glow of daylight beyond them, but there is nothing in the rucksack that they’d brought with them that will help. No rope, no flares, nothing he can put to work. He knows he needs to stay calm too, fighting the tide of panic that he feels rising within him. His legs are already cramping from crouching awkwardly in the cool water.

 

Eventually, he sinks down slowly next to Aidan and puts his hand on his shoulder. Aidan flinches a little but he doesn’t pull away. As long as Aidan doesn’t get too cold, he’s sure they can wait it out until somebody reaches them.

“It’s ok, mate; there’s help coming. We’ll just sit tight until Graham gets back.”

“Graham?” Aidan sniffs and looks up now, round eyes full of questions.

“Yeah. He came out here with me and we spotted you from outside. He’s gone to get help, Aid; I’ll bet he’s already called for mountain rescue. We’ll just wait it out, right? You and me.”

 

Dean doesn’t say it’s probably going to take Graham at least another half hour to reach a spot from where he can make a phone call, and even then, he has no idea how long it would take the emergency services to get out here. He thinks of the slick mud of the track they’ve just trodden, and knows Graham is going to have a hell of a job if he is really going to run the whole thing.

 

His attempts at comforting Aidan fall on deaf ears. The trapped man makes a noise like an injured dog, a soft whine at the back of his throat. He’s closed his eyes again and Dean can hear him starting to mutter under his breath once more.

_“...justwater... ’sjustwater...”_

Seeing Aidan in the grip of such anguish hits Dean hard. He feels the breath knocked out of him with the force of the other man’s misery; feels his chest filling with hot emotion as he realises all he wants to do is bundle Aidan in his arms and take him far, far away from here.

“Oh Aids, it’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re going to be just fine. I’m right here with you, ok? We’ll have you out of here in no time, you’ll see.”

_“nonono... pleasedon’t....  Idon’twantto... fuck... why’dithavetobewater...?””_

“Nothing is going to happen. I’m going to sit right here with you for as long as it takes.”

Aidan looks at Dean with a stricken expression.

“You - you d-don’t understand,” he hiccups.

 

Dean sighs.

No. He doesn’t understand.

He has no idea what’s running through Aidan’s head, though he could take a stab in the dark. The memories this must be dragging up for him must be overwhelming, horrifying. He can only begin to imagine what this claustrophobic, dripping darkness is doing to Aidan, sitting in the water that he’s avoided for so long.

 

“It’s not the same... they’re not here, Aidan. We’re not in the boat. Nobody is going to get hurt. It’s just you and me. _Listen to me_. They’re not here.”

He says it before he’s even thought about it. Dean doesn’t know if bringing it to the fore is the right thing to do or not; knows how Aidan feels about him treading into that territory. They’ve never really discussed Aidan’s family beyond their heated arguments, but Dean figures there is little time for delicacy; that he needs to say something to bring Aidan back to himself and away from the dark terrors that fill his mind.

 

His words seem to distract Aidan, his mouth opening and closing below wild eyes, on the verge of saying something. Dean sees him inhale deeply, shaking with the effort of it; forcing himself to explain. He speaks slowly, shuddering through the cold, his voice still raw and rough with despair and disuse.

 

“No, D-Dean; it’s not that, not - only that. You don’t get it. The cabin... it came down so fast. I was downstairs working, cutting some stuff to finally put that shower in. I heard the landslide. I t-thought it was thunder, at first, but... but there wasn’t any t-time...” He takes another deep, shuddering breath. “The whole lot just slid so quickly, all in one piece, sort of like it rolled over sideways. The floor c-collapsed and I fell down here... my leg got trapped straight away and it’s...” he nods to his leg, eyes creased and shining with pain, “Well, it’s b-bleeding. I tried to lift the pipe, tried pulling my knee like I said, but something cracked an’... it’s a real fucking mess.” He winces as he recalls the excruciating noise. “It just won’t c-come. But that’s not the problem. There wasn’t even any water, in the beginning. Just a trickle down the b-back here,” he waves his good hand towards the rear of the wooden cavern where the full force of the raging brown stream is now cascading through cracks in the wood, “But this, look at it now; it’s getting higher and h-higher an’ I... I’m going to fucking drown.”

 

In his haste to keep Aidan calm, Dean hasn’t paid any attention to the water level. He looks down only to see that it has sneaked a good few inches higher up his shirt than it had been when he’d first reached Aidan. He makes some frantic calculations.

“How long have you been down here?”

“I’m not... not sure. Last time I ch-checked it was around three? That was before... before, but it can’t have been that much longer after that... _Uhh_.” Aidan grimaces as he tries to shift position, to raise himself up and away from the creeping water.

 

He must have been down here for no more than three hours. Dean estimates it’ll be up to another hour before the emergency team reach them. It’s not going to be comfortable, but he reckons they should be fine – just - if the water keeps rising at the same rate. He looks down towards Aidan’s knee but sees only swirling foam.

“You’re bleeding?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, a bit. It’s p-probably nothing though.”

“How much blood was there?”

“I don’t know. I think the pipe is actually s-stemming the worst of it. Maybe it’s stopped now? I can’t tell though... the water.”

Dean knows a bluff when he hears one. Even now, despite all this, Dean knows that Aidan is trying to protect him, trying to keep Dean from falling over the edge with worry and fear; and it makes his heart twist painfully in his chest. He asks again, more forcefully this time, leaving Aidan in no doubt that he wants an honest answer.

“How. Much?”

The hazel eyes that fix on him don’t quite conceal the flicker of panic that passes across them.

“Enough.”

 

* * *

 

He tries not to think about it. How Aidan is not only trapped but hurt, maybe badly; and Dean is seemingly powerless against both. He pushes it all down, his heart hammering against his ribs. He creeps round to position himself in front of Aidan again, carefully climbing over the pipe and avoiding his injured leg. He takes Aidan’s arms in his hands, squeezing and releasing his muscles, rubbing some warmth back into them. He isn’t sure who he’s trying to reassure more - Aidan or himself.

 

It’s Aidan that breaks the silence, his mournful expression growing almost curious.

“How did you know I might be in trouble? Wait - why _are_ you here Dean? We... the things we said, things we d-did-”

“I’m here because I love you and I was worried about you. I saw the news.” Dean says levelly. “There were reports on the landslides and I... I wanted to check you weren’t hurt. I needed to know -  even if it had turned out that you were fine. I wanted to talk to you anyway, I really did; it’s just that... I needed to get my head on straight first. I know the way we left things was bloody awful... I should have come to you, and I didn’t. I wasn’t even sure if you’d even want to see me. But today, even if you’d turned me away, never spoken to me again -  I just needed to know at least that you were alright. I could never have lived with myself if I hadn’t come.”

“You really still love me?” Aidan croaks as he tilts his head downwards again, nervously watching the water.

“As if I ever didn’t.”

Aidan huffs, a small shivery smile playing across his lips.

“I’m so sorry that you even have to wonder. I know I’ve been apocalyptically stupid, the way I did things... but you must know I never wanted you to ever have to question it.” His hand brushes across Aidan’s cheek, his thumb grazing the fine line of his cheekbone.

“I don’t know why I’m even asking. I know you do, really. No-one else c-came, Dean. Gray wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t b-been for you. I’d be here alone. I’d be... dying alone.”

Dean looks at him, shocked at the flat certainty of his statement.

“Nobody’s going to die, Aid.” He sees the sadness in Aidan’s downcast face overwhelm him as his eyes start to fill up again. “Aidan. Will you look at me? I promise I’m not going to let you die in here. Not on my fucking watch. Graham will be... I’m sure he’ll almost be back at his bike by now,” he lies.

“Ok.” Aidan doesn’t look at him as he replies; robotically, unbelievingly.

 

For a moment, the only sound is the water rushing past them, the muffled rush of the breeze through the trees beyond the cavern of debris, the distant rattle of loose stones tumbling idly down the slopes around the steep valley. Dean realises that this is the first time in weeks that they’ve properly spoken to each other, without bitterness or hurt.

 

He doesn’t know how to begin. It seems inevitable now that they’re going to finally have to talk about what has happened. This isn’t the time, isn’t the place; but he knows that there is no way they can make small talk until Aidan is finally freed. There is so much that he needs to say, so much that he wants to hear from Aidan, that he doesn’t know where to start; and instead he is rendered temporarily speechless and all he can do is let his eyes roam across the man opposite him as it occurs to him yet again how monumentally stupid he has been. To think that any of it _mattered_ , the things Aidan told him, didn’t tell him. The things they’ve owned, built with their hands. Stupid things uttered in the heat of the moment; said out of broken ache, in defence of their own hearts. They’ve both said things they shouldn’t have. Things that can’t be undone, never be taken back. Both handled their grief so awkwardly, and in trying to shelter each other from the worst of it they’ve crept around each other in a way that has eventually only made things worse.  

Idiotic? Yes.

That he’s used things against Aidan that he never should have – and had them used against him - will be something he hopes neither of them forget because he wants them both to learn from it. But is it enough to make him want out? Not even close.

They’re only human, after all. Two guys trying to make their way through the shitty hand life has dealt them.

He doesn’t care anymore.

He loves Aidan. The most important truth he will ever know. That’s what matters.

The things they have shared – moments that no-one else could ever replace, feelings that Dean will never be able to replicate with anyone else, things whispered into the dark, the hope they instill in each other, looks that say more than Dean could ever hope to express with words; everything Dean hopes that they have yet to come - _that’s_ what matters.

 

He thinks of how hard it is having Aidan so close to his heart. How much he wants to keep him there forever. How hard he will have to work to heal them both. How much he isn’t scared of doing it, if Aidan will let him.

They’ve been foolish. Childish. Unnecessary.

 _No more_ , he thinks _. It ends now._

 

“You - you really came out here with Graham?” Aidan asks quietly, his head drooping lightly between his shoulders.

“Aido, I’d have walked to the end of the damn earth with Graham if I’d thought it would bring me back to you. I looked for you at your place and I’d have broken the door down if he hadn’t eventually let me in. Luckily when it comes to you, he’s pretty accommodating. He rode me out here on his bike. He’d be in here with you now but there’s not much space and he’s kind of... huge.”

Aidan gives a small snort as he nods in shaky understanding.

“Anyway. We weren’t exactly expecting...” Dean glances around at the remains of the devastated cabin. “I think he only came with me because he wanted to watch you punch the living daylights out of me.”

Aidan finally looks up, and to his relief Dean sees a flicker of the man he knows as his lips quirk upwards in the ghost of a smile.

“I’m sure I can try to oblige him.”

 

Dean grimaces as he shifts uncomfortably, secretly glad that the cold is keeping Aidan from feeling what must be a considerable amount of pain. He glances surreptitiously at the water, noting the slow creep of it up his body.

“How long have you been out here? Graham said he had no idea where you were.”  

“Three days? I sort of d-didn’t tell him, just walked off I suppose. I assumed he’d know. I needed some space. I’ve been looking for...” He shakes his head, a slow sweeping motion, like even he isn’t sure of what he’s been searching for. “Myself,” he murmurs.

“And... did you find what you wanted?” Dean asks softly.

Aidan looks up with the faintest hint of a wistful smile, and Dean can’t tell if he looks sad or amused.

“I think I just did.”


	25. Súton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Súton (n.) Twilight; the approach of death or the end of something.

Dean sinks himself back down next to Aidan so that their shoulders just brush, fearful hesitance preventing him from getting any closer. Aidan leans into Dean’s touch almost imperceptibly. He notices with a tug of guilt the faint purple line across the bridge of Aidan’s nose that he knows didn’t happen during the fall.

“Hey. I’m so sorry I hit you, by the way. I don’t know what came over me.”

Aidan snorts through his shivering.

“I think we’re a little way past that Dean, don’t you? Don’t b-blame you anyway, I was asking for it. It was a good shot.”

Dean smiles a little.

“Maybe so, but I’m still sorry. I was wrong to do it.”

“I hardly think that’s t-true.”

“It is, though; isn’t it?” Dean gasps inwardly as the significance of it all hits him. “It’s my fault that you’re here. If I hadn’t been such an idiot in the first place, broken it off-”

“Then you’d have been out here with me and the we’d b-both be fucking stuck, wouldn’t we? Then who’d have come for us?” Aidan points out flatly.

 

Dean can’t argue with the logic, but before he has a chance to continue, Aidan straightens up and sharpens his gaze.

“Listen, I need to apologise too.”

Dean shakes his head.

“Aid; you really don’t-”

“No, I mean it, Dean. Let me. If I’m not g-going to m-make it out of here, then I need to say it,” he grits out, ignoring the look Dean throws him for his lack of optimism, “It’s important to me. If anyone needs to be s-sorry about what has happened, I reckon it’s me. I did so many things wrong. I never gave you a chance that night you tried to apologise, but everything you said was t-true. And putting you up against the wall like that... taunting you, it wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have used sex as a weapon; it isn’t, never should be. I was just hurting, what you did _hurt_ so m-much, even if it’s half my fault. More than half. I should have told you everything about myself from the very s-start. I was only ever setting us up for a fall, the way I did things. I didn’t understand that it could have caused you pain too, I c-couldn’t have known what it would do to us – _ahh_!”

He cries out and winces as his body sags forward.

“Shit! Are you alright?” Dean lurches towards him in alarm, catching his shoulders.

“Uhh... yeah, s-sorry. It’s just so fuckin’ _c-cold_...”

Dean moves as close in to his body as he dares, trying desperately to press some of his remaining heat onto Aidan.

“What can I do?”

“N-nothin’, really,” Aidan shakes his head. “I’m headin’ towards proper h-hypothermia, I’d guess. I’m trying but I.... I need to get out of here, nothin’ else will help. Don’t let me fall asleep, though. ‘m tired.”

 

Dean has noticed the way Aidan’s eyes flutter shut from time to time, the way it seems to be taking him longer to focus when he looks at him. He realises his face must be giving away just how frightened he is becoming at the prospect of Aidan slipping into unconsciousness down here; at the thought of not being able to get him out in time, because Aidan’s expression softens as he tries to quell his shivering.

“Talkin’, t-talking is good. You’re doing good,” Aidan says softly.

“Ok. Alright. Talking I can do,” Dean assures him. “Are you sure... you want to talk about this, though?”

“Yes. Yeah. It m-might be the last chance I have, and I couldn’t go if I’d left you not knowing...”

 

Aidan’s eyes rip into Dean’s, saying everything he doesn’t know how to with his words.

 

“I didn’t know how to share it,” he blurts suddenly. “Somethin’ so heavy, I d-didn’t know how to put that on someone else. I didn’t want to. I still d-don’t. Especially not onto you, Dean. You already have so much of your own hurt. When we met, you were s-so in love with Lee, in such _agony_ still _._  It wasn’t the right time for me to just throw all my issues at you too. And then... I don’t know how it happened. I was never l-looking for what we have, but it arrived all the same, right there in front of me; and I had no idea how much I wanted it until I realised I was waking up every day and the only thing I wanted to know was if I might see you.

“So fast, so fast you started to represent something else so different for me, so far away from all that stuff; something so important that I just wanted to k-keep it all separate. You were the only one that has made me _feel_ since they died. I don't know what happened, the day we met. I was watching you, and you disappeared and didn't come up. I thought maybe I was f-frozen to the spot, all these thoughts turning over and over in my head. And suddenly it was like a switch flicked on in my head, and I just stopped _thinking,_ and b-before I knew it I was under the water with you. I don't remember running down there. I didn't know I even had it in me still. I guess after all that time trying to shut it away, I'd lost who I was. And maybe it took what happened to you to show me that. And then after, when I put you to bed, it all just came rushing back, like I was right there watching it happen all over again, all these things I'd told myself I'd forgotten. It hurt so m-much, but all I could think was how glad I was that I'd saved you. 

Somehow you got inside all these walls that I put up and dug right d-down inside me, and you did it with just your damn smile and clumsy fuckin’ feet and without even trying I knew that you’d hooked me so hard. You were a relief from everything else. Whenever I’m with you it all disappears. You showed me hope when I thought I was in a hopeless place. You liked me for exactly who I was w-without me having to worry if you just felt sorry for me or having to wonder what you thought when you knew about me running away.

“You make me someone else, you make me my old self again, but - more, but better. I didn’t want to b-bring all my sadness into that. You gave me something to look forward to. Every day, every day was a little better because of you. I know... I know I never made it easy for you. I know I avoided it; there were chances to tell you but I... I guess I thought maybe you’d think so much less of me, after what I did. I just hoped that maybe, maybe given enough t-time I would be able to let it go a little, move past it. That I’d be able to do it just by the grace of you being you; with you not knowing and showing me how to look forward instead of back. I’m only sorry I didn’t get there f-fast enough. It’s not... it’s not that simple.”

 

Flame-coloured words roll around Dean’s head, a long-past conversation rushing to the front of his mind.

_“...they don’t like that they can’t fix it for you and people are uncomfortable with what they don’t understand. They get pissed when you don’t conform to their timetable.._. _You can’t make his existence disappear. They can’t make you do something you’re not ready for, Dean...”_

 

He’s been so busy taking Aidan’s advice about handling his own grief that he hasn’t really listened. How could he have been so blind? Aidan had laid it all down in front of him the very first day they met, and Dean hadn’t even thought to gauge the depth of it.

 

“Oh, my love.”

Dean’s voice is hoarse with heartache. He hadn’t realised how much the chill has already seeped into his own body until the tears burn hot tracks down his face.  

“I’m such an ignorant shit. I thought it was so _important._ I should never have tried to push you. I just wanted you to trust me, you know? I thought if you told me what had happened to you then it would mean you were opening up to me in a way you haven’t done with anyone else, like that would mean something somehow. That somehow you not telling me meant you loved me less. It was never my place to make you do it, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I just hated... knowing, and lying to you by not telling you that I knew, and I got so confused. I should’ve just come straight out with it when Graham told me. I just... I only ever wanted to help you.”

“By doing what? How do you think you could have helped me?”

“By... by...” Dean trails off. Now that it comes to it, he isn’t exactly sure what it is that he’d been planning to do to make things better for Aidan. “By... just being there. I don’t know, Aids. By being a shoulder? A hand in the dark? Whatever you needed me to be. Believe me, there is very little I can actually _say_ to you to make any of it better, but I just want you to know that you don’t have to be alone. The thing about grief is it’s one of the only lessons in life that you have to learn by doing it the hard way. That doesn’t mean, though, that you have to do it by yourself. You don’t have to carry it all. Let me. I want to. I want to be there if you go to those places in your head. I want to be there to bring you back again.”

 

“But then... but then you’ll see an’... you’ll know what it does to me when I think about it, and... you might not love me anymore,” Aidan sobs, desperate eyes swimming with tears.

 

Dean can’t keep away any longer. He lurches into him, throwing caution to the wind as he pulls Aidan’s upper body into his; gripping at him frantically, ferociously. He knows he’s holding him too tightly but he can’t bring himself to let go. He feels Aidan flinch with pain, but he melts into Dean’s shoulder regardless as his hand wraps around the back of Aidan’s head, fingers tangling and tightening in his hair. Dean rains kisses on the side of Aidan’s face, the rough scratch of stubble along Aidan’s jaw igniting his mouth, and his lips find his ear.

 

“I could never not love you. I know enough about love to know what having everything you ever wanted and losing it feels like. To know that I should have known better, been better. You and me, that’s what matters. If you still feel even an ounce of what you did then I know you’ll agree with me, Aid. That we can put all of this past us. Start fresh. Or better still, learn from this and make sure we never make the same mistakes again. I never want to take a day with you for granted. Not ever. Ok?”

 

Aidan nods adamantly in Dean’s grip. Dean breaks away and gently takes Aidan’s head between his hands, careful to avoid his injury. He presses a forceful kiss onto his forehead, tilting his own down until they come to rest against each other.

 

“Don’t you think though... that it might be too late?” Aidan whispers it without looking up, but Dean knows he is eyeing the water. He pulls back and tilts Aidan’s chin up with his fingers.

“No. Don’t say shit like that. Graham is coming.”

 

Aidan nods again but there is no conviction in it.

 

“Do you reckon.... when we’re both out of here, that that talking about this might be a good idea? I don’t mean to me. Maybe... maybe it might be time to finally get some professional help with this?” Dean asks. 

Aidan looks at him, startled.

“D’you think I didn’t? Christ Dean. I’m not d-dumb. I mean I got some help, counselling, I talked to people. I tried so hard to just go back to normal, I really did; but you know that’s not how it works. I didn’t hide away though; you know? Everybody knew what had happened anyway. I t-tried to do the things I’d always done. Work. Pub. Thought maybe eventually it would just happen, that it would stop being so raw and real and... just fucking _hard_. They’d said I should talk about it as m-much as I wanted to; but it’s a small place, where I’m from, and stuff like that isn’t easy for people to deal with. I could feel it pouring off them, guilt, unease, sympathy, doubt. Discomfort. They didn’t know how to t-talk to me, how to look at me, what to say to me. And can you blame them? What do you do when something like that happens, and to people you’ve known your whole life? Nobody ever tells you what to say.”

 

Dean nods his understanding, knowing exactly what Aidan is saying.

 

“Some tried to ignore it, thinking it would make me feel b-better; some tried to help but only ended up making it worse. I don’t know when I started pulling away but I did. Seemed easier not to confront it at all, to make out that I was fine and barely even remembered. No point making everyone else’s lives just as miserable as my own. People seemed much more comfortable that way. It was alright too, for a while; until I realised I felt like I was sleepwalking all day, like I had to go right out of myself just to keep a lid on it, the sheer effort it took to keep it all reigned in. And at n-night, when I would be back on my own, well.” Aidan shakes his head as he inspects the lines of his palm.

“What I did when I went back to w-work, when I failed so spectacularly just because I couldn’t deal with my own issues... that’s what really broke me apart. Finished me. I didn't just fail to save him, I basically  _killed_ a man. My fault, no-one else’s. I was flying, I was the one that couldn’t hold the d-damn hover, I was the one that couldn’t get it under control. That will forever haunt me, Dean. That guy drowned because I couldn’t even do my job properly any more. I had to leave. I had to. There was n-nothing left of myself. When Dad and Cal died, every little part of me went with them. I didn’t even recognise myself any more. It just seemed – easier, to start again as if it had never happened, as if they never even existed.”

 

“But surely you knew that wasn’t possible? You said to me... when we met, you said to me that thing about being a one-legged man, that I couldn’t just make Lee’s existence disappear - why does that apply to me and not to you?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“It’s got _everything_ to do with it!

“Because it’s different!”

“How? _How?”_ Dean demands.

 _“Because it wasn’t your fault!”_ Aidan’s shout is sharp and his voice rings in the thin air. His anger is a red line along his cheekbones.

 

Dean falters for a second, stops pushing him and lets it sink in. Aidan still really believes that he killed his own family.

 

“It wasn’t your fault. How many people have you saved, Aid? You can’t keep everyone alive. You’re a hero – I’m sure anyone could have seen that.” he whispers.

“What’s the use in saving other p-people if you can’t even save those that matter the most, the ones you’re supposed to look out for above all others?” Aidan’s face is a picture of total despair. “I couldn’t even keep my own brother, my Dad alive, Dean. I should’ve done more. Shouldn’t have even been on the boat, I wasn’t fit-”

 

“You think if you hadn’t been on the boat that they wouldn’t have just got someone else to take your place?” Dean interjects. “The boat was at fault, not you. Not you. It would’ve happened anyway, and probably happened a lot worse. You gave your Dad a chance. How many people would have even got back into that boat to try and get him out? And you think your brother, in your position, wouldn’t have made the same choice – your Dad or you? I wasn’t there, but I know, _I know_ _you_ , I know you did everything you could. You will always look back and say you could have done more, could have done this or that differently; but I have never, ever seen you give anything less than everything in anything that you’ve done, and I know without a doubt that that night was no exception. They knew it too, Aidan.”

Aidan’s lip trembles as he blinks through fresh tears.

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

 

* * *

 

For a while Aidan doesn’t say anything. His head is tilted back against the wood behind him, tears spilling over his red-rimmed eyes and down his face, running into his mouth and dripping off his chin.

“I watched him, you know. Cal. If it hadn’t been so rough I might have been able to leave Dad, m-might have been able to find a way to secure him so I could just... I don’t really know what happened to Cal while I was down in the galley, I never will. He was yelling at me from the w-water, something about his leg. There was nothing to help him with, I couldn’t see properly... something had happened to my eyes, like I couldn’t f-focus. Would’ve been when I got hit on the head, they said after. Even a rope would’ve done. Could’ve thrown it to him, pulled him back in, but it was all over the fucking place in the water, and everything was so much h-harder hanging on to Dad, and I’d broken my arm... In the end he stopped yelling, stopped thrashing, just went still, calm. But I know he was w-watching me too. I wish I had thought of something to say. I just watched him disappear. I blinked and he’d gone.”

Aidan sniffs and looks at Dean.

“Do you know what my Dad said to me, before he died? He said, ‘Be happy’. I can’t even do that, can I? Can’t even do that for him.”

“Oh, sweetheart. But you’ve been happy. I know that all _this_ is always right with you every single day.” He rests his hand over Aidan’s heart. “I know there isn’t a morning that you wake up without it. But didn’t we have some fun? I know... I know I did.”

 

Dean closes his eyes and suddenly he sees endless mountains against a blushing lake and warm bodies that explore each other for hours on end as slate-coloured rain battles against windowpanes; oil paint on canvas and teeth that flash brighter than sun on snow, a haphazard line of bottles chilling in the river and a map made of stars and early morning sunlight on wooden walls; wild hair and miles of tan skin against crumpled white sheets and eyes that laugh as loud as the mouth they’re paired with. Music blares from earphones shared between two tousled heads, black and gold; lazy kisses passed back and forth between mouths as songs fill in the spaces in their souls. He traces words onto the smooth skin of Aidan’s back. He tastes beer and tobacco and sour champagne on a tongue that licks mercilessly into his mouth; smells leather and sex and diesel and pine. He’s dancing with Aidan on the grass, feet blazing trails in the dew. He’s pretending not to watch Aidan pretending not to watch him working in his studio. They’re watching the sky torn apart by fiery falling stars. They’re standing on top of the world, grey stone and a endless vista of distant peaks falling away beneath their feet and whooping into the whipping wind, not sure if they’re at that exact moment boys that look like men or men that feel very much like boys. 

 

He laughs out loud, but he feels more like he should be screaming. The noise leaves Aidan confused but suddenly Dean just can’t take it anymore. The beauty of everything they’ve had. Aidan being stuck, hurt; Dean powerless and both of them desperately alone in this hell-hole of a wreck. The real and creeping possibility that he just might not be able to fix this – that they might run out of time, and that Aidan really might die right here in front of him. He covers his mouth with his hand, trying to hold in the sobs that have wrenched their way out of his lungs and force themselves into his throat.

“Shit,” he shudders, his voice oddly high-pitched and raw. “You’ve made me so happy.”

Aidan looks at him so sadly that Dean feels like he is splitting in two. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and lets the stinging tears come, raining freely down his cheeks. He doesn’t realise that Aidan’s hand is on his face until he opens his eyes again.

“And you me,” he says softly. “B-being with you, Dean, has b-been... How did we let ourselves end up like this?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. And I’m sorry. I never... I never wanted this, any of it. I only ever wanted you. That’s all I’ll ever want. Just you.”

Aidan’s thumb strokes Dean’s jaw slowly, catching in the scruffy beard that Dean has allowed to grow there during his recent lassitude.

“You have me. For as long as you can handle me.”

Aidan tilts his body as far towards Dean as he can manage, and Dean closes the gap. The kiss is soft, shaky; but it’s like fire and it rips through him and he cries into it, angry with himself for not being able to stop. Aidan kisses him again, and again; raining gentle kisses onto Dean’s lips until his breaths come calm and steady once more.

 

“You know, a wise man once told me something that changed my life,” Dean murmurs, scrubbing the tear tracks from his face. “He told me that it’s alright to break a bit. As long as it’s not all the time. He told me to let it out, and not to be afraid if other people didn’t want to see it. That’s their problem, not mine. But he also told me not to hang on to it all for too long or it would turn into something else. He said...” Dean cocks his head, trying to remember Aidan’s words from that first night that seems another lifetime ago. “He said there’s nothing beautiful about it. And do you know what the most important thing he told me was? He told me that you can’t protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness too. Maybe... maybe, Aidan, all this grief has been holding you stuck in place and now it’s time to get... unstuck?”

 

Aidan’s head finds Dean’s shoulder and he nestles in to the crook of his neck. The water sits at the bottom of his ribcage now, and Dean glances back out towards the daylight, noting the pink tinge it now throws into the wrecked cabin. He only hopes Graham has found help, because he has no idea how they are going to hang on in the dark.

 

“While we’re on the subject of apologising,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “I’m so, so fucking sorry about what happened at the bar that night. I shouldn’t have danced with her, should never have got so close, but I didn’t kiss her, Aidan. I really didn’t. She kissed me... I hope you know that. I really didn’t.

“I know.”

“You... do?” Dean splutters weakly. He’d been expecting all sorts of protestation.

“I know who she is. Olivia, isn’t it? Tries it on with everyone. Even me, a long time ago. I wasn’t interested, nothing happened; but she’s pretty persistent.”

“Then... then all the anger, why-?”

“Oh, I don’t _know,_ Dean,” Aidan screws his face up, a picture of desperate resignation, “I think I just finally tried to do what you asked and open up. I'd been thinking a lot about how I'd handled things for the last couple of years, and in doing so it all came tumbling out; everything I’ve been trying to keep a lid on for years, and I just d-didn’t know how to handle myself any more. It wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you. At all. I saw you pushing her away but I still let myself get mad at you. You’re so _good_ , and for a moment I lost sight of that and didn’t even think about how you might be f-feeling to have led you to tell me you wanted to break up. I should have known it wasn’t actually anything to do with not wanting to be together. I didn’t really believe you, anyway; even after I walked out that morning you called it off. Knew that there must be something you weren’t telling me, to have m-made you say it. It was a pretty big shock finding out that you knew all about me anyway, and it threw me. I just needed to calm down. I didn’t want to say something I’d regret. But when I realised that you’d t-taken your key back, I-”

“Wait, wait. What key?”

“The key. To your house, the one that you g-gave me. It... It was on my keyring, and when I looked for it b-back at home I realised you must have taken it off before you left that day, while I was s-still off in the woods. I guess then I realised that you actually meant it, that I’d really fucked it all up.”

Dean stares at him in dazed confusion.

“Aidan, I - I didn’t take the key. You put in in the envelope and left it on my doorstep, remember?”

Aidan knits his brows together.

“Darlin’, I think I’d know if I’d given you your key back.”

“Aid, it was right there. The envelope had my name on it and everything. It was...” Dean cuts himself short. He tries desperately to remember, but the scrawl had been so messy. He’d assumed Aidan had scratched at the paper in anger, but now that he considers it, he can’t be sure if it really was Aidan’s writing after all.

“Then how...?” Aidan begins, before Dean sees his eyes flash in understanding. “Adam,” he breathes, so quietly that Dean almost doesn’t catch it. “Adam. He... I ran into him on my way back to town, that afternoon. I wasn’t going to tell you but I was a bit of a mess. I had to pull over in town, I was... I might have been crying.”

He looks embarrassed, but Dean just presses a kiss into his hair and quirks his head, gesturing for him to continue.

“He was walking by and s-saw me in the pickup. He offered to drive me home, so I let him. Obviously, I had to give him a rough version of what had happened. He... he had my keys. You don’t think...?”

Dean shakes his head, puzzled.

“But why would he take it? And go to the effort of putting it on my step instead of just handing it over to me, if he thought he was doing me a favour?”

Aidan looks at him, just as confused.

“I have no idea. But I guess you’re going to need to have a chat with him when you’re out of here.”

“When _we’re_ out of here.” Dean grits out.

 

Aidan’s turn of phrase isn’t lost on him. Despite his efforts to be optimistic, Dean can’t help but start to feel the icy sting of panic prickling around his heart. There is no sign of anyone coming for them, and if the temperature of Dean’s own body is anything to go by, then he has no idea how much longer Aidan is going to be lucid and talking. His own head feels thick, like a weighty fog has settled in, and his thoughts are slow and churning. Aidan doesn’t reply but Dean can almost hear him thinking.  

 

“There’s somethin’ else I want to apologise for. What I said, about you and Lee, that was totally out of line.”

It’s Dean’s turn to snort.

“You were right, actually.”

“Huh?”

“About Lee. You were right. Turns out he’d been sleeping with other people all along. Half the town, by the sounds of things.”

“He... eh, _what?_ Are you serious?”

Dean nods grimly.

“Shit, I’m sorry. That’s unbelievable... what a fucker. I mean Christ, I c-can’t say I liked the sound of him much but it was nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t have - shouldn’t have said what I said but I couldn’t help it. I just wanted you to know that you were more than the sum of the memories you’d created for yourself. I think sometimes you think you’re someone less because you still s-see yourself through his eyes, when apparently, he never even deserved to look at you in the first place. You’re better than that. I know I never met him, and you’re r-right when you said I had no idea about the two of you together, but things you told me just didn’t sit quite right. I never imagined he was actually doing _that_ though. How did you find out?”

“Richard. He caught him at it but didn’t tell me. ‘til now.”

Aidan tries to sit up a little, but fails and frowns, making his objection clear.

“He didn’t _tell_ you? What, like he d-didn’t think something like that would be important? Why?”

Dean sighs.

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“Richard loves me.”

“I bloody know that, Dean; you guys have been mates for-”

“No... I mean...” Dean raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“What? Oh. Oh! Wow, Jesus,” Aidan blinks heavily as he takes in Dean’s revelation. “Adam, Lee, now Richard; what the actual fuck is happening?”

“I asked pretty much the same thing,” Dean replies drily. “Look, I think he really wanted to tell me, but was worried it would all come out in the wash and that he would have just ended up looking like a bitter jealous wanker. Which obviously he isn’t. I get it. Rock and a hard place. Either way. Turns out that Lee was a dickbag.”

“Too b-bloody right. God, I’m sorry Dean. That must be a hell of a thing to hear. Fuck, poor Rich though.”

 

Dean shrugs his innocence.

“It’s not exactly my fault! I literally had no idea. It’s not like I was leading him on some merry dance. Yeah, poor Rich; I hate the thought of him hanging on for me, but god knows, I’m not worth it. You know, I’m glad he told me. It’s out there now, and I don’t think this means we can’t still be friends. I know he will find someone to make him happy.”

“Well as long as I don’t have to challenge him to a duel or some shit over you,” Aidan mutters, gravelly and low. He stops and chews his lip for a moment, before he continues, “You asked me about getting angry. I guess you’ve worked out by now that I’ve got a bit of a temper on me.” He looks down sheepishly, wincing as he sees that the water is lapping higher than ever up his chest; the chill wrapping itself around his lungs and making him gasp with every intake of breath. “I get it from mam. She wasn’t much good at keeping it under wraps. I told myself I was n-never going to be like her but...” Aidan’s voice cracks and he rubs furiously at his temple. “I guess... here I am. She wasn’t always like that but... I know parents say they don’t have favourites, but Cal was hers. When he died, she really changed. Grief, I guess. He... he was smart, always b-better behaved than me.”

“But Aids, you’re a fucking rescue pilot... how was that not good enough for her? You’re bloody smart, anyway.” Dean reassures him.

Aidan gives a half-smile and continues.

“Maybe. Still. I wasn’t b-bad at school, but I just didn’t care so much for it. Found it hard to concentrate. Got bored. When I left I had n-no idea what I wanted to do. I only started flying because I was into the thrill of it. It felt dangerous; g-going and riskin’ your life to save other people. It wasn’t exactly exciting, growing up where I did. Beautiful, sure, b-but there was fuck all to do. Mam resented me because she thought I should have w-worked with Dad, so that Callum wouldn’t have had to. He was s-supposed to go And study law, b-but he stayed to help out. Least that’s what he said, anyway - I know t-that he didn’t really want to go. He never had that ache for somethin’ _more_ like I did, this inner indecision about what I wanted from life. You know, she didn’t let me go to the funeral.” Aidan’s good hand reaches up to clutch the front of his t-shirt, like he’s trying to take hold of his heart.  “Fuck, I’ve never told anyone this before. She said it wouldn’t be r-right, given what I’d done – or failed to do, more like. The rest of my family t-tried to talk her round, but she wasn’t having it.”

“You didn’t even get to say goodbye?” Dean asks, in horrified astonishment.

 

Aidan shakes his head rapidly. Dean can see him swallowing tears. He imagines Aidan alone on the cliffs, a monochrome figure high above rolling waves; greyscale spray merging with fog and gulls calling out like mourners.  

“Oh, Aidan...” Dean breathes as his heart breaks for the man in front of him all over again.

“I think m-maybe that’s what made me leave so fast, after what happened. Part of me knew that she always wanted me to go, r-rather than stay around and remind her of w-why Cal wasn’t doing bigger things. Seemed like the least I could do for her, in the end. You said that I ran away, and maybe I did. Seems to me that I b-brought it all with me though, hey?”

 

“You’re not like her.” Dean’s voice is calm, adamant. “You’re fixing it. You’re willing to admit that you might have been wrong, and you always give people a second chance. I don’t think... I don’t think we can ever really run away from things that happen to us. God knows I’d like to run away from Lee, but I know I can’t. I guess all I can do is... re-evaluate. I always thought Lee was like my North. Like the arrow of my compass would always point to him, and I’d know which way to go with him in my life. But I understand now it was something else. I was a magnet, pulled in by him. He controlled everything I did. I wasn’t free to set my own way. I didn’t see it but every decision I made came back to him. That’s no way to live a life. Lee’s opinion mattered more than my own but I know you would never let me become that person. 

“But you. You’re the east. You’re the warmth before I even wake up. You’re the direction I turn in the mornings to see the sun. You’re promise on the horizon, Aid. You can stand at the top of the world and not be able to travel any further north. But the thing about going east is, you can walk to it forever and ever and there will still always be more east to walk to. You, Aidan; you will always be my destination.”

 

They cling to each other in the weak light, pulling each other in until Dean doesn’t know where he ends and Aidan begins. He presses his face into Aidan’s neck, swallowing gulps of air as he realises just how much he has missed this; as he wills himself not to think about the horrifying possibility that he might not get to have this any more.

 

Aidan breathes across his ear.

“I... I.... I...” He chokes back a strangled sob, “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m sorry to be l-leaving you alone. I can’t bear the thought of you going through everything again, b-but I’m not getting out of here, am I?” He breaks away, his desperate eyes swimming. “Will you stay until the end?” he asks, so quietly that the words are nearly swallowed by the swirling water.

 

Dean can only open and close his mouth, balking as the vile reality of it hits him.  

 

Will he?

Will he manage to stick it out? To stand by and watch Aidan spluttering as the water reaches his mouth, his nose; watch his head disappear under the water – and then what? Dive down, breathe inadequate air into his lungs until – what? He gets too tired? Until Aidan gives up?

Or will Aidan make him hold him under before it’s too late, do it on his own terms?

“The only end we’re waiting for is when Graham returns with the rescue crew, ok?” Dean grinds out between gritted teeth. “I made a promise. I’m going to keep it.”

 

“Fuck,” Aidan grunts, throwing his torso away from Dean’s and leaning himself against the wood behind him. “I need a smoke.”

Dean looks unsure.

“Is... are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Nope,” Aidan quips, but he nods to his shirt pocket that sits only just above the rising waterline. “Please tell me they’re still in one fucking piece.”

Dean leans across and carefully pats his pocket. Aidan has been down on the jetty, he realises, as he finds them in a flip-top plastic box that he uses to make sure they stay dry. Dean knows he goes down there alone sometimes, early mornings when he thinks Dean is still asleep. He sometimes wonders what Aidan finds in the presence of the water there that he can’t find in Dean, but he understands that there are some things in life that you be party to, no matter how much you might like.

 

He flips the box open to reveal a lighter and just two cigarettes left – both miraculously still dry.

Aidan studies the pack in his hand.

“One for the road?” he asks softly.

Dean catches his eye and swallows hard, giving a small nod.

“I’d love to.”

 

He takes the smokes, gently placing one between Aidan’s shivering lips.

“They’re bad for you,” Dean chides. “Smoking kills, apparently.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Aidan replies, the smallest twinkle back in his eyes.

Dean has always loved their effortless switch from dark to light, the way they can draw laughter out of the grimmest of situations. _This has got to top them all,_ he thinks, but he sees no reason for them to change their ways now. 

 

He leans in so their heads are mere inches apart and lights Aidan up, a shaky hand shielding the flame from the spray, which has thankfully died down drastically since the water has risen. Aidan inhales deeply and throws back his head with a kind of satisfaction, acrid smoke coursing into his chest as Dean tends to his own cigarette. They sit in what Dean kids himself is almost contented silence, shoulders crushed together. Twin spirals of smoke coil into the air and merge seamlessly with the watery mist.

 

He’s never been one for smoking, but he can see why Aidan needs one now. Why this fits. He looks at the other man out of the corner of his eye. Aidan is looking up thoughtfully – sadly, at the weight of wood around him.

“Will you rebuild it?”

Dean’s heart pounds in his ears as he tries to stay the shaking in his fingers.

“You rebuild it with me.”

Aidan looks at Dean for a long while. Saying everything, saying nothing. He leans in as well as he can manage and brushes his lips to the corner of Dean’s mouth.

“It’s been a pleasure,” he says softly.

“Don’t,” Dean chokes angrily. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He feels tears prickling his eyes but he refuses to cry again. “You’re coming home. You’re coming home with me.”

 

Aidan is right down to the filter now and Dean hears him take a last, extra deep drag, as if he could preserve himself just by breathing in as much as he can. With one final flourish, he blows a single, perfect smoke ring; and together they watch it lazily float away, dissolving into the dark. 

 

* * *

 

The cold burns. Dean’s legs feel like they are on fire. He feels his body fighting it, wracking and shivering against Aidan, though Aidan’s own shivers have diminished to a quiet constant reverberation. He feels a sluggish lethargy, like even holding his head up is more effort than he’d like to spare. Neither of them has spoken for some time, Dean having lost count of the minutes as he’s become increasingly more confused. Aidan lulls gently beside him, and though Dean knows he is supposed to be talking, he can’t quite remember what he is supposed to be saying. There’s a thought that’s been nagging him, something Aidan said; tugging at his mind since he arrived in the boat – or was it the cabin? He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, commanding himself to concentrate.

 

When he remembers, it’s like having a light turned on inside his head, a ray of clarity punching through the haze. He forces his shuddering mouth to speak.

 

“Aidan.... Aid?”

The quiet form next to him only hums by way of reply.

“What were you cutting? You said – you said when I came in to get you that you were cutting something to put the shower in. Was it pipes?”

“Mmm. Yeh.”

“ _Metal_ pipes?” Dean hears the pitch of his voice rising as the idea grows and grows.

“Yeah. Copper. Had a... had a saw.”

“A hacksaw?” His desperation is clear now. “Aidan, were you using a hacksaw?”

“Yeh,” Aidan croaks, “Had it... had it in my hand, an’ then we all fell down.”

 

Dean is up in a flash, eyes wild and heart hammering. If Aidan had been holding the saw, it has to be down here somewhere, somewhere close. All he has to do is find it. He staggers as he forces his legs into obeying him, splashing around until he can kneel and grope along the ground with his hands, gasping and coughing as he swallows a mouthful of water. His frantic movements send water showering all over Aidan, who moans as Dean jars the pipe holding him pinned. He scrabbles systematically along the length of the cavern, becoming increasingly more infuriated as he repeatedly strikes objects that could be what he is looking for, only to fling them aside when they are inevitably revealed to be junk.

 

Just as he is about to give up, his fingers graze sharp metallic teeth, the small flash of pain filling him with more hope than he has ever felt.

 

He stands up as straight as he can, a bubble of relieved laugh escaping his lips. His grin is almost crazed as he looks from the dripping tool in his hand to Aidan.

“D-Dean, what the f-fuck?” Aidan utters, his face frozen in horror. “Are you going to cut my fucking leg off?” Aidan tries to scrabble backwards away from Dean, but between the stove pipe and the wall of debris at his back, he has nowhere to go.

“Oh, god no, baby; no,” Dean replies, sinking to his knees and feeling for the hard pipe below the surface. “But I am going to get you out of here.”

 

* * *

 

The first draw of the blade over the metal sends the saw skittering sideways, the sharp teeth grating down into Dean’s left hand which is braced further down the pipe.

He hisses and screws up his face. He’s no stranger to using tools, but the water is a complete unknown quantity to him. He knows it’s theoretically possible to do this, that the saw would make fairly short work of the thin metal up in his workshop; but under the water like this there is no friction and the saw slides wildly around on the smooth surface, refusing to bite. In a flash of inspiration, he tears at the shirt tied around his waist, wrapping it around the pipe and placing the blade on top. It’s clumsy, but it gives the tool the purchase it needs to make the first few strokes, until he has a notch just deep enough to work with.

 

The sudden burst of activity after sitting still for so long leaves him dizzy, but he throws himself into the task with a blunt singlemindedness. Almost immediately he feels the pull of the muscles in his arm, the blade dragging more slowly through the liquid than he is used to. Next to him, Aidan pants, wide-eyed. Neither of them speaks, Dean reserving all his energy for simply freeing Aidan as fast as he can, his breath dancing through the cool air in heated puffs. He senses the metal starting to give way below the blade, feeling with his fingers to gauge his progress. He hopes that once he is halfway, the pipe might be weak enough to bend upwards and off Aidan’s leg without him having to cut all the way through.

 

When the fall comes, neither of them is ready.

 

Dean passes the distant rumble off as thunder at first; until he feels the ground beneath his feet sway slightly, as if he is standing on the water itself. He stops sawing, his face creasing in confusion as he looks at Aidan; but Aidan only turns to watch the wood at the back of the cabin explode inward in what feels like slow-motion, furious spouts of water erupting through the splintering fractures; and all thoughts leave Dean’s mind as the torrential wave sweeps towards them, taking the torch and it’s borrowed light with it.


	26. Sarang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarang (n.) lit., "I wish to be with you until death."
> 
>  
> 
> So many amazing comments from you all on the last chapter, thank you so much! I'm sorry to have left you on a cliffhanger - but I appear to be making a habit of it.
> 
> Possible trigger for drowning.

Dean’s back collides with the rough ground, knocking what little breath he had in his already heaving chest right out of him. His eyes are open but in the dark deluge he sees nothing. His flailing feet finally strike the bottom and he struggles to bring himself upright, eventually breaking the surface gulping and wheezing as the body of the flood surges past him. To his relief the water has only risen to his waist, but from what he can see of the volume of it tearing through the wreck, it won’t be long until it is much, much higher. The makeshift cavern they’re in hasn’t given way completely, but the wall of debris that was restraining the water behind it has half-crumbled, and now that the initial wave has passed Dean realises that the rain-swollen stream is almost unimpeded in its path through the cabin.

 

He hears Aidan before he sees him, the bright spots flashing in front of his eyes forcing him to squint to make him out in the grey haze. The man’s breath comes in punching gasps like he too has been winded, not managing to form any words in his renewed state of shock. Dean fights against the flow until he is at Aidan’s side again. His eyes are pure dread, flat and dark with terrible anticipation. The water grazes the top of his collarbones, the frothing current pulling against his body.

“It’s ok. It’s ok,” Dean gasps on repeat as he throws himself to his knees, bringing his hands up to grasp Aidan’s freezing face, realising for the first time since he was knocked over that he is miraculously still clutching the saw. He presses it into the other man’s lap as Aidan simply shakes his head.

 

Dean understands. He doesn’t even know why he’s pretending.

It’s definitely not ok.

 

He breaks. He doesn’t hear Aidan’s pained cries as he throws himself against the pipe again and again. There’s mud on his face and blood on his hands. He claws at the walls of earth and wood and river rocks until his fingers are raw, desperate to dig it out, to dig Aidan out. How can the damn thing be stuck so tight?

 

“ _Fuck!”_ he yells, kicking at the water in futile anger.

 

He yanks the saw back from Aidan and throws himself to his knees next to the pipe once more. He fumbles under the water until he finds the cut he has already made, the rising surface now perilously close to his face as he bends down.

“D’nn... go, jus’ go... get out of here,” Aidan grates. “It’s b-better that you don’t see it happen.”

“Shut up. Just shut up,” Dean snaps, immediately regretting it. “If we go anywhere, we go together.”

 

He grits his teeth and sets his jaw hard, slotting the blade back into the notch and throwing himself into hacking Aidan out with more fury than he knew he had in him. There is no sound but the hiss of the water and his grunts of exertion; Aidan reduced to mute terror, clamping his mouth shut to keep from swallowing mouthfuls of the splash that Dean is creating.

 

The heat is almost instant. The saw slides in his palm and he finds himself gripping tighter and tighter, friction searing the handle into his hand in a white-hot strip. His arm is heavy and throbs with effort; and every inch of his body begs him to stop but he can’t. He is almost savage in his intent, blowing hard in the dim cavern as he begs the metal to give way. It’s harder than he’d anticipated, the very force with which he has to move the saw to create the speed he needs.

 

He knows that even if Graham and the mountain team were to appear right now there would be little they could do beyond what Dean is already desperately attempting.

Knows that any hope of freeing Aidan rests with him and him alone.

Knows that they’ve run out of time.

 

He glances over to Aidan, water almost lapping at the base of his jaw as he tilts his head back as far as he can to keep himself away from it. For a brief moment, their eyes meet and Dean feels a flash of despair before he tears himself away and screws them shut, blocking it all out and launching back into his task. The position of the pipe so low in the water means he can only just reach it and keep his head above the surface simultaneously, turning his face to the side so that he can still breathe, working the tool as best he can with his arm at a near-full stretch rather than the bent position he knows would be infinitely faster and easier; but it’s not enough and he caves in to the inevitable, taking the deepest breath he can manage and pulling himself down beneath the water.

 

Pain fizzes in his arm as he redoubles his efforts. His lungs join the rest of his body in screaming protest but with his arm now bent he drives the blade through the pipe more easily, and he surfaces to fill his lungs and dives down again. He knows he must be close, knows it can’t be that much further. When he surfaces next, he is alerted to Aidan’s predicament by a muffled whine. The water has reached up and over his chin, licking at the corners of his mouth. His breaths come heavy and hard through his nose, his face contorted in anguish and tears streaming from beneath eyelids that are squeezed shut.

 

Dean knows this is it. His last chance. Either he frees Aidan now, or the next time he comes up for air Aidan will be below the water and he won’t ever be coming back up. There is no time to think about it as he sinks back below the dark torrent, how this might be the last time he sees Aidan. His stinging hands find the tool held tightly now by the stove pipe. He forces all his weight against the saw, four, five, six times; ignoring the searing heat in his palm and shoulder, but just as he starts to weaken and fight for oxygen he feels the pipe give the smallest sigh beneath the blade, his eyes widening underwater as he lets the saw go and feels the metal holding Aidan in place yield. He grabs broken pipe with both hands, paying no mind to his own pain as he tears it off Aidan’s body, throwing himself back up to the surface and flinging himself at Aidan, hauling him up as high and as far away from the water as he can.

 

* * *

 

Dean knows the sound that Aidan makes will stay with him for the rest of his life. He’s never heard a person make a noise like that before; a primal roar of pain so deep and forceful that Dean wonders for a second if he really _has_ cut through his leg. He has no idea of the damage done in freeing him, but there is no time and instead he heave’s Aidan’s arm around his shoulders and drags him towards the fading daylight.

 

Aidan is still conscious, but now that Dean is holding him up his body is limp and heavy in his arms, and only now does he realise that the ordeal is far from over. Navigating himself out of here would be hard enough, but carrying Aidan with him is going to be near impossible. At least the threat of drowning is momentarily negated now that they’re standing, but the current is strong and it is almost impossible for Dean to find his footing.

 

He propels them both forward, stumbling in the dark until he reaches the fallen ladder. He knows that beyond it, they can scramble their way along the mess of fallen beams that he prays are still there; but there is no way past the ladder other than under it. He slides Aidan’s arm off and brings himself round so he can look at the other man’s face.

“Aido?”

Aidan groans in reply, but his eyes flicker up to Dean’s.

“We’re almost there, love; but we just... we just gotta go under for a sec. Just a tiny second under the water, yeah? Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Aidan blinks heavily, but then seems to realise what Dean is asking.

“Nuh... nononono,” he shakes his head as he shudders with revulsion, but Dean grips his shoulders hard and shakes him.

“Aid, come on. There’s no choice. You’ve done it for me once before, you can do it again. For me?”

“I... Don’t...”

 

Aidan is cut off by the faint rattle of tumbling rocks from the back of the space and Dean can’t let himself wait any longer.

He pulls Aidan’s chest tightly into his, holding his arm around his back; and with his free hand he quickly reaches up and pinches Aidan’s nose shut.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, before taking a deep breath himself, tugging both of them down under the dark water. He feels Aidan fighting him, struggling to break free from his grip; but thankfully he is weak with exhaustion and cold and Dean hangs on tightly, feeling his head bump against the ladder above them as he part-drags, part-swims them along. He forces them upwards, hoping to god he’s gone far enough. He is weak with relief when he breaks the surface, desperately filling his lungs as he releases Aidan, who gasps and coughs next to him and stares wide-eyed in bewildered betrayal.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dean chatters, “You know I had to. Come on, we’re so close. Come on.”

Aidan tries to co-operate, but with one arm and leg rendered useless he is essentially dead-weight on Dean’s shoulder, and all he can do is hold on tight and let Dean haul him over the remainder of the wreckage; crawling ever closer to the daylight and the freedom of the open air just beyond.

 

By the time they finally emerge it’s all Dean can do not to fall to the ground. He trips, catching them just before Aidan goes over. With a monumental last surge of effort, he guides them away from the cabin and further out onto the heap of gravel; his arm wrapped underneath Aidan’s shoulders, Aidan’s injured leg dragging jerkily between them across the rough ground. Dean is still fearful that the whole thing might come down on top of them, and he doesn’t stop until he feels he has put them at a safe distance, and in a spot from which they might be able to summon help. He sets Aidan down carefully, his head falling back against the stones as Dean glances around, frantically hoping that somebody might be there, might see them; but they are completely, desperately alone.

 

Dean sinks down onto the ground next to him, every ounce of strength draining away from his body. He weakly hauls Aidan’s torso across his knees, tucking his chest down as low as he can to try and preserve the little warmth left between them. It is immediately apparent that their soaking clothes are a magnet for the chill and if anything he feels colder now than he did in the water, the breeze licking at his back turning his wet t-shirt into a hellish icy blanket that sears his skin like fire. 

 

The sun is setting fast, and he thinks it laughingly ironic that it is turning out to be one of the most beautiful evenings he has ever seen. The earlier storm clouds have vanished, hurried away by the wind; and in their place is a clear pastel sky, fading lazily down to the purpling ridge of mountains. The lake beyond them glows softly beside the trees which burn vibrant reds and oranges as they put on their final show before autumn makes way for winter, the crisp breeze blowing smoothly through them causing each leaf to dance like the whole forest is alive.

 

Dean tugs Aidan’s limp body further into his lap.

“Aid? Hey, love, look at t-this,” he whispers, trying desperately to rouse Aidan from his slide into unconsciousness.

Aidan hums softly but doesn’t so much as lift his head. Dean’s whole body shivers with a force that shocks him, but Aidan is still and for all the world looks like he is sleeping. Dean looks down at him, and is alarmed when he realises that the pale hue of Aidan’s skin in the dim light of the cabin was nothing compared to how it actually looks out here. He is grey, the ghostly blue tint of his lips matching the shells of his ears.

Dean glances at his own hands and realises he isn’t much better off. His skin is white, swollen and wrinkled from the water, but the ends of his fingers are icy and numb. He runs his eyes down Aidan’s body and balks when he reaches his leg. His wet, bloodied jeans are ripped and the kneecap beneath is torn raggedly wide open; chunks of blood and flesh and bone grimly exposed to the open air. Dean winces and breathes out hard between his teeth, willing himself to look away but his eyes are glued to the wound in horror.

 

He doesn’t know how long they sit, feeling himself start to drift as shadows from the trees lengthen quickly around them. He feels like they’re floating, like the ground beneath them is liquid itself. His vision starts to flicker, and he finds when he looks out of the sides of his eyes the images stall and shake like an old movie. He whispers to Aidan intermittently, his heart leaping sickeningly into his mouth every time his reply is delayed, terrified that if Aidan stops answering then that will be the end of it.

 

Aidan barely speaks. Now that they’ve stopped moving his chest has stilled too, his breaths almost imperceptible. Dean clings to him desperately as hopelessness washes over him, feeling himself sag as all the adrenaline rushes out of him and he is left shocked and shaking and shattered.

“Aids? Come on, baby, just a little bit longer, just a little bit...”

 

Dean looks up to the sky with furious hope. He sees no trace of help, only the scattering of the first faint stars nudging themselves into existence in the pink wash above them. He can’t help but be taken by his memory, the weak pattern of constellations revealing themselves high above; wrenching loaded words from his heart and pushing them into his clouded mind.

 

“Tell me,” Dean gasps, “Tell me something true.”

Aidan screws up his face with a last burst of determination and shifts slightly in his arms. Dean has to crane to hear him, his voice low gravelly and slow.

“Ev’rythin’ good... that I learned ‘bout love... I learned because of you.”

 

Dean’s screaming hands grip Aidan even tighter, as if his physical hold on the man can stop him from sliding away. He doesn't want to continue, doesn't want to think about what Aidan might say next; but he knows he must, and so he does. 

“T-tell me... something no-one else knows,” he whispers, the pitch of his voice rising as he tries and fails not to cry. Aidan’s eyes crack open, and despite the agony behind them he doesn’t blink when he finally focusses, looking intensely at Dean.

“Sometimes... I get a little bit lost... but every time it’s you... you, that b-brings me back to life; an’ I... I will n-never stop loving Dean O’Gorman.”

 

Dean wails, but the only sound that leaves his mouth is a muted keen. Aidan’s eyes flutter closed and he almost seems to sigh, his black lashes stark on white skin. His blue lips are parted slightly, and Dean has no idea if he’s given up, or if he’s simply stopped fighting it.

He throws his head back and sobs silently into the air; pain flooding his chest, outraged at the unfairness and the senselessness of it all.

Eventually, he folds himself back over Aidan’s still form, and forehead to forehead he winds his fingers through Aidan’s damp hair, whispering his hopeless prayer over and over.

_“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t...”_

 

His eyes close and he can’t bring himself to open them again. He hasn’t the energy, hasn’t the urge. He finds it bitterly cruel that the sound of the blood pounding thickly inside his ears is an almost exact match for the whirring throb of a helicopter, a sound he will forever associate with Aidan and the intoxicating attraction of seeing him so masterfully in charge, so relaxed and happy and already more than halfway to making Dean fall in love.

 

* * *

  

His body is numb, a senseless void. Cold air surrounds him like black slumber, insistent and pervasive. Maybe it won’t be so bad, falling asleep like this. What does it matter, anyway? He’ll be none the wiser when he doesn’t wake up. He lets the thought console him even after faint voices start to echo in his head, even when warm fingers curl around his own, frozen and stiff, gently tugging him away; a steady, familiar voice coaxing him back to himself.

“Let go, Dean. You can let go. You’ve done it; you got him, and now I’ve got you. Let him go now.”


	27. Dormiveglia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dormiveglia (n.) The space between waking and sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, over 100 kudos! Thank you so much to each and every one of you. I can’t tell you how much it means. And your comments are, as always, so fabulous. 
> 
> I’m sorry this update has taken longer than planned, but sadly life got in the way.

Dean floats in dark space. His mind wakes long before his body, and for a time he allows himself to drift in the absence of thoughts in the insensate stretch between waking and sleeping. His limbs are lead heavy. For a while he considers opening his eyes, but he decides against it. He has no idea where, or who, or how he is. He only exists, contained between the walls of his consciousness.

He flits between dark dreams and fantastical flashes of memory, wallowing in the comfortable slide of his mind back into its deepest reaches. Only when the burn starts to creep across his palms does he start to get restless, feeling his body prickle and ache painfully against the surface on which he lies. He tries to turn away from the unwelcome sensation but his head throbs agonisingly as he rolls onto his side, and he has no choice but to crack his eyelids apart and squint into the world to try and make some sense of his surroundings.

When the room finally swims into focus, it’s legs that register first. A sprawl of dirty denim next to his – bed, is it? – and he allows his eyes to slowly roam upward toward their owner. Light snores escape from parted lips, grey hair sprouting on a sleep-slack jaw. Dean winces as he tries to sit up, dull pain thudding in his skull.  
_A hospital_ , he thinks as he slowly takes in the equipment around the room, the sharp smell of disinfectant that cuts through the air; _I’m in hospital_.

As if on cue, Graham’s eyes fly open and for a moment he looks as sleepily confused as Dean before his expression turns sheepish, embarrassed to have been caught napping. He draws himself closer and coughs to clear the rough sleepiness from his voice.

“Hey. Welcome back. How are you feeling?” he asks gently.

“Uhh...” The sound scrapes sorely along Dean’s throat. “Graham?” The Scotsman is the last person Dean had expected to find sitting in his room. “Where...?” 

“Hospital. It’s all over. You’re alright now.”

Graham frowns as Dean just blinks blankly at him.

“I...” he croaks. He has a nagging feeling that something is going on, something important, but he can’t put his finger on what the ‘it’ is that Graham is referring to. He looks around for someone else; Richard maybe, or Aidan, but it’s just Graham and himself. “Am I sick? Where’s Aid?”

“Aidan...” Graham winces and sighs. “No, Dean, you’re not sick. Do you,” he rubs his hands together as he tentatively asks, “Do you remember what happened?”

Graham waits and watches as reality catches up with Dean, the smaller man visibly sagging as the awful realisation of why he is here slowly dawns on him.

“I remember...” he falters, shaking his head.

  
There should have been noise.  
Wind in the trees.  
White water bubbling where the stream met with the swollen lake.  
Desperate words spilling over his lips.  
The rhythmic thump of air sweeping over him from rotor blades whirring to a stop behind him.  
Dean doesn’t remember hearing any of it. The total absence of sound, only the rushing of blood in his ears as Graham finally took his chin in his hand and tilted his face up to look at him, his mouth moving noiselessly as Dean just blinked and stared.

“You came to get us. I remember silence. That’s it, really. Just silence.”

“But... it wasn’t silent,” Graham shakes his head, looking sadly at Dean, recalling all over again the horrible moment he reached the huddling, frozen bodies on the rubble. “Dean - you were screaming.”

 

* * *

 

_It takes both Graham and two of the rescue crew to tear Dean away from Aidan. Graham has no idea how Dean has enough breath in his lungs to be making the agonising, unbroken howl that shatters the crystal air. He fights to keep hold of the limp body in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably as he is finally wrenched away. Graham hovers, unsure of what he should do as the rescue team fly into action, of who needs him more – the boy he loves like a son lying lifeless on the ground, or the boy that the boy loves, now blue-lipped and shuddering a few paces to his right. Eventually he comes to his senses and strides up the slope to where a medic has shepherded Dean and is now starting to tug at his wet clothing. He muscles himself in to help, throwing Dean’s boots aside as they wrestle him out of his sodden jeans. Dean struggles as he cries and tries to fight them off, but they persist and soon enough he is clad in only a space blanket wrapped tightly around his body, and then a thick insulated sleeping bag on top of that, his body wracking with forceful shivers._

_The medic kneels in front of Dean and looks up into his eyes, flashing a small torch into them as Dean flinches and turns away._

_“Hey mate. I’m Mike. Can you tell me your name?”_

_“_ _Yes,” Dean replies gravely, and Graham rolls his eyes despairingly._

_“So.... Tell him then,” he prompts, and Dean finally stutters, “D-Dean.”_

_“It’s good to meet you, Dean. We’re going to get you out of here and all warmed up, how does that sound? Looks like you’re feeling pretty cold right now, but I’ve got some stuff here that’s going to have you feeling a lot better.”_

_“Not c-cold. F-freezing,” Dean chatters through his teeth as Mike kneels down to locate some chemical heat packs in his bag, tucking them tightly under Dean’s armpits beneath the blankets._

_“I reckon. Hang tight, mate; we’ll get you sorted out.”_

_Mike asks Dean a couple more questions, if he knows where he is, if he can tell him what happened; but both Dean and Graham can only look helplessly past him to where Aidan lies unconscious on the ground, the two remaining medics swarming over his body.  
Mike hops up and briefly disappears inside the back of the helicopter, engaging in a rapid and serious looking conversation with the pilot._

_Graham heart sinks faster and harder when he realises that Aidan hasn’t been woken by either the noise of the helicopter landing or the rescue crew who are now doing their best to rouse him. The female crew member is bent low over his ear, asking him his name, if he can hear her._

_“Aidan, his name is Aid, Aidan...” Dean gasps quietly, and Graham squeezes his knee. He’s filled the crew in on all the information he has about Aidan and Dean during the flight, everything he knows about their medical histories and what he guesses might have happened to them since he left them at the wrecked cabin. He’d been prepared for Aidan to be in a bad way, but this is beyond anything he’d imagined. His brain turns over and over, trying to piece together the events that have unfolded since he left Dean clambering in to where Aidan was buried, knowing they need to wrestle what information they can out of Dean._

_“She knows buddy, she’s just doing her job.”_

_“I’m not your buddy. Who’s buddy? I’m Dean. Deano. Dean O. Oh!”  
_

_He starts giggling maniacally trying to wriggle out of the blankets that practically smother him. Graham frowns deeply, feeling more concerned about Dean’s condition by the minute._

_“Aidan, I’m Jen and this is Kit. We’re going to help you,” the woman continues to talk to Aidan reassuringly across the pile of debris from where Graham crouches. The male medic working on Aidan produces a pair of trauma shears and starts to carefully hack at Aidan’s soaked clothing, deftly slicing off his shirt and cutting away at his jeans, gently but quickly removing his boots, trying not to aggravate his knee any more than necessary. Graham glances over and sees ragged scraps of bloodied denim still buried in the wound before a chemically-heated blanket is draped across his lower body, blocking it from view._

_Graham forces himself to look away as Mike returns with another kit bag, swiftly kneeling down beside him at Dean’s feet._

_“Is he alright? He seems out of it,” Graham whispers gruffly, keeping his voice low so as not to give Dean any more reason to get hysterical._

_“He_ _will be,” Mike replies under his breath. “It’s just the cold. Totally normal. He doesn’t mean any of it, it’s a bit like being drunk. He’s alive and kicking which is the best possible sign.”_  
_He turns his attention to Dean, raising his voice and speaking more slowly so that Dean can process his questions._

_“Dean? I need you to try and think. About Aidan. He’s unconscious, isn’t he. That’s alright, but it would be really helpful if you could tell me how long he’s been like this?”_

_“_ _I... I... I don’t know,” Dean shakes his head as he tries to form a single clear thought, but Graham can see that he barely has any idea where he is, let alone what is happening. “Wait!” Dean grabs Mike’s sleeve. “We... We were talking, though. Just here, we really were. The sun was setting and I wanted him to look. And then you came.” Dean’s scrabbling hand finds Mike’s arm and he squeezes, a dazed expression on his face. “You’re very strong. Do you work out?” He blinks hard and screws up his face, trying to remember how to construct a sentence. “But... he said... He told me something true.”_

_Mike looks imploringly at Graham, but he can only give a confused shrug. He has no idea what Dean is talking about, if the conversation was even real or if he’s imagined it; but Dean adds weakly, “He was stuck in the water and I saved him because I don’t want to live without him. I was holding him and... and we were talking and then... he just fell asleep. Tell him to wake up. Make him. Please?”_

_“Ok Dean. Good job, that’s really helpful. Try not to move around too much,” Mike adds as he rummages in his bag._

_“Aid can’t hear them. Those people talking to him. He fell asleep...” Dean mumbles from beneath his covers. “Are we sleeping, Graham? I think I’d really like to go to sleep now.” He looks up at the man in front of him with hazy, unfocussed eyes; and his face falls suddenly as he forlornly muses, “Aidan’s asleep, but he hasn’t got a pillow.”_

_“No, Dean, unfortunately we’re wide awake. Try to stay awake, ok? Aidan... Aidan doesn’t need a pillow right now. Let’s just get you warmed up,” he says, as Mike hands him a flask of hot chocolate and a sachet of energy gel._

_“Make sure he drinks that, he needs the sugar. I’ll be back in a tic,” Mike instructs him. He gives Dean’s shoulder a light squeeze before he hops up and races over to his crew with the rest of the equipment._

_Graham raises the Thermos to Dean’s lips but he bats at it and turns his head away._

_“You need to get warm, Dean; you’re not helping anyone like this.”_

_“Shut up, Graham, I’m not thirsty.”  
_

_“Do as you’re fucking well told,” Graham growls. He knows Dean has no idea what he’s saying, but he’s so overwhelmed by what is happening that he can’t help snapping. “We’re all worried about Aidan, alright? But I need your help. Come on now.”_

_Dean seems to snap out of it, and meekly lets Graham help him take small sips as he shivers violently under the warm blanket._

 

_Snippets of conversation float across the pile of rubble to where they sit, and Graham doesn’t know if he wants to move closer and listen or block all of it out and pretend this isn’t happening._

_“I don’t think he’s been out long,” he hears Mike panting as he relays the information Dean has given him about Aidan, crouching down on the rubble next to his team. “His friend says they were talking just before we got in, but I’m not sure how much sense either of them was making. Sounds like he was in the water maybe a couple of hours,” he tells them. “I’ve called in for another chopper. You guys evac Aidan first then I’ll follow with Dean. He’s moderately hypothermic, pretty confused and lethargic, but I shouldn’t think there’ll be any problems there once we’ve got him warm,” he says as he nods behind himself towards Dean’s hunched form._

_“Aidan is hypothermic and unresponsive. Right linear occipital laceration. Comminuted displaced fracture to right patella.” Jen briefs Mike, pointing out Aidan’s head and knee injuries as she works. “He’s freezing. We need to get out of here. Oral temp...” She squints at the thermometer, “Twenty-eight point seven degrees.” She raises her head just slightly and the three medics share a concerned glance._

_“Pupils fixed and dilated. Carotid pulse is...” She presses her fingers to Aidan’s neck and stills as she feels for his pulse, frowning in concentration as time passes in slow-motion. Graham watches in horror as she pauses for what seems like an eternity, counting to a full minute before she gives her head a slight shake. “Not present.”_

_“Shit,” Kit mutters quietly as Mike finishes unpacking the defibrillator. He swipes a small towel across Aidan’s chest to ensure that it is dry before attaching the pads. “Stand clear,” he says, as he taps the ‘analyse’ button, and Graham holds his breath while the machine detects the rhythm of Aidan’s heart.  
_

_“Damn it. He’s in V-Fib,” Jen announces, frowning at the irregular line shakily dancing its way across the screen of the monitor._

 

_Graham’s head swims. He doesn’t know what V-Fib is, but from the expressions on the medics’ faces as they hunch over Aidan, he can only assume it isn’t good._

_“Shock him. We’ll give him two goes, but that’s it. Clear,” Kit directs as he adjusts the voltage, and Jen and Mike quickly withdraw their hands as the electric current jolts though Aidan._

_“Compressions,” he instructs, and Jen falls into position, thrusting her hands downward between Aidan’s ribcage as she starts to administer CPR. Kit squints at the small display, but shakes his head abruptly. Graham can’t help but think it looks brutal; Aidan’s normally solid body jostling with the force she exerts onto his chest as she tries to coax his heart back into a normal rhythm._

_“Still the same?” Mike asks._

_“Yeah. One more go?” Kit asks quietly, and Jen nods sharply, quickly removing her hands._

_“Clear?” Kit calls, and once more Aidan’s body jerks with the shock._

_Graham can’t look any more.  
He can’t bear to hear what he knows what they are going to say. He’s sure his own heart has stopped as he waits. They’re taking too long, and there’s no reason for them to be taking so long unless there is no hope. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling himself start to lose his grip on the situation. He’s normally so solid, prides himself on his unflappable nature, but this – he can’t begin to fathom how to handle this._

_“Aidan, you bloody champ!”_

_Graham looks up in petrified confusion just in time to see Jen smiling down at Aidan’s still form, then turns the grin up to Kit._

_“We’ve got one. Normal rhythm, pulse present, weak and thready; breathing –” She pauses again, her ear hovering just above Aidan’s mouth, looking intently down the line of his ashen chest. “Yes, shallow, but yes.”  
_

_“Atta’ boy Aidan,” Kit whoops as they fly into action again. “We need to intubate. Gently does it, gently now. Did we bring that oesophageal probe? Monitor his temperature, ventilate him on the heated ox and-”_

_Graham can’t listen any more._

_He feels like he has been punched in the stomach and he lurches forward, not realising how much he’d been clinging to the tiniest hope that Aidan might not leave them sitting here alone. He reaches up for Dean, needing to feel something, anything human and living and breathing; taking his chattering jaw in his hands._

_“It’s gonna be alright, Dean. It’s gonna be okay.”_

_He glances back over his shoulder as Jen attaches the tubing to a gas canister in its insulated bag, administering warmed humid oxygen while Kit pulls out a catheter kit._

_“Inserting femoral line.”_

_“Probe temp twenty-eight point eight degrees,” Jen announces._

_“Shit, we’re cutting it close here. His BP is through the floor. Need to get a move on. Easy does it. Is that saline warm yet?” Kit calls over to Mike who is now prepping the bags on the heater in the back of the chopper, who gives him the thumbs up. Kit finishes up expertly inserting the catheter into the vein in Aidan’s groin and Jen gives him a sharp nod._

_“Let’s go.”_

_Together they lift Aidan carefully on his stretcher, and Graham watches numbly as they load him into the hold. Mike jogs over and points to the darkening sky as the door slams shut and the pilot takes the rotors rapidly up._

_“There’s another bird landing right now. They’re going to take Aidan straight to hospital, and I’m going to come with you and Dean. You doing alright mate?”_

_Mike looks at Dean still shivering and lolling heavily before him, and Graham follows his gaze. Dean hasn’t said much, and despite the blankets he seems to be shaking harder than ever, but he knows that since he’s had a sugar hit he’s just a little more with-it, his eyes taking on a little more of their characteristic spark._

_“We need to get him checked in, seen to properly, warmed up inside,” Mike tells Graham, raising his voice over the noise in the sky. “He’s going through what we call afterdrop. The cold blood from his extremities is actually making his core temperature drop just slightly further as his circulation kicks back in, but pretty soon he’s going to start picking up.” He turns his attention back to Dean, wrapping his hand round the back of his shoulder. “Hang in there, Dean. We’re gonna get you toasty real soon, okay? You’ve been bloody great.”_

_“And Aidan?” Graham asks quietly without looking Mike in the eye, shielding his face from the scattered dust as the second helicopter touches down in place of Aidan’s, which has already departed._

_“They’re doing everything they can. He gave us a bit of a scare just there, but he’s in good hands,” Mike reassures him._

_Graham feels sick. He knows exactly what that means._

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t remember, but he hasn’t forgotten either.

  
Air punched from his lungs by frantic water.  
Hands on fire.  
Heart in pieces.  
Aidan’s eyes as Dean tugs him under the frothing torrent.  
Aidan.

He stares at Graham, eyes wide with panic. His clouded mind can’t for the life of him work out why Graham would be sitting here with him when he could be sitting with Aidan.  
Unless...

“Oh God. Where is he?” His voice cracks. “Please... please fucking tell me he isn’t –”

“He’s alive, Dean. He’s here too.” Graham cuts his rising terror off, resting his large hand comfortingly on Dean’s knee beneath the blue heated blanket. Dean watches him chew his lip, like he’s trying to work out what best to say. “He’s... They’re warming him up. He was quite a bit colder than you. It’s a bit more complicated, so I’m told. They need to do it slowly so that he doesn’t... get ill,” he explains vaguely, looking frustrated with himself for not quite understanding the avalanche of medical jargon that has been launched at him over the last few hours. “It’ll take a while. Try not to worry about it, there’s not a lot we can do right now. I thought maybe you could use some company. I didn’t want you to wake up on your own.”

Dean can’t help but think it sounds like Graham is trying to convince himself. He realises there must be a lot that Graham isn’t telling him, but he feels dizzy despite lying down and he doesn’t know how much more he can process right now.

“Thanks,” he replies quietly. “Is he... Is he going to be alright?”

Graham looks down and a small, crooked smile flashes across his lips before it disappears just as fast.

“You know Aidan. He’ll be in here sulking about hospital food and demanding I hand over his smokes in no time, you’ll see.” He swallows heavily and Dean can see that he’s trying to play optimistic, to keep him afloat.

Dean nods in sad understanding.  
His head hurts. His hands hurt. His whole body aches.  
He can’t help but still feel excruciatingly cold, like ice has seeded itself deep within his muscles and refuses to thaw until his heart does, frozen in the anguish of uncertainty, waiting for Aidan to wake before it can work again.  
He wants to go back to the comforting oblivion of sleep, but more than anything he wants Aidan; and waking up to find that he’s still potentially fighting for his life isn’t doing anything to make Dean want to face the world.

“How long have I been here?” he asks, frowning at the pitch-black window on the wall opposite his bed, feeling faintly alarmed that he remembers absolutely nothing of being brought here.

“About four hours.”

“I’m tired,” he whispers. He feels like every ounce of adrenaline has been leeched from his body, and his vision starts to blur at the edges as his eyes roll heavily in their sockets.

“I know, mate; but before you do - the doctors, they need to ask you a few more questions. We’ve pieced most of it together, but is there anything else you remember that might be useful?”

“I don’t... I don’t know. There’s a lot of gaps. I must have told you some of it, surely?” Dean mumbles, his brain still trying to catch up with itself.

“Not a lot, if I’m honest,” Graham winces. “When we reached you, you weren’t exactly... lucid.”

He tactfully leaves out the details of the screaming and swearing.

“We worked out pretty quickly that the water must have come up, and you kept saying that he was stuck. We can only guess that you cut him out, judging by your hands,” he nods to the bed.

Dean retracts his hands from under the covers and sees to his surprise that his palms are swathed in white bandages.

“You burnt them,” Graham continues. “Looks like friction. Did you find a saw or something?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. Jumbled fragments of memory rain into his mind like pieces of a puzzle. “He was under the stove pipe. It was jammed, I had to cut through it. Shit, Graham – he almost drowned. You have no idea how close we came. His knee... he hurt his knee.”

“Mmm,” Graham hums. “Bit of a mess. If he – when he’s warmed up,” he corrects himself adamantly, “He’ll be going into surgery then so it’s going to be a while before you or I get to see him. So he was talking, then? Making sense, I mean? Anything else?”

“I got in there and he’d hurt his head. He was panicking, we started talking… and…”

Dean starts to stammer fragmented sentences, but in the end he can only shake his head and shrug.

“Not really. I’m sorry, Graham. Only what we’ve already said.”

It’s not strictly true.  
He does remember. Every word of it.  
What passed between Aidan and himself during their hours in hell is carved onto his heart. He doesn’t know why or quite how they managed to say all they did, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s never had a more important conversation in his life. Everything he admitted, everything Aidan laid bare – all the uncertainty that had plagued them, all their worries – it’s all vanished for Dean, and he knows that something has shifted for Aidan too, the visible relief of finally letting go.

He thinks of the electric touch of Aidan’s hand on his skin, the bizarre notion that despite the horrifying circumstances that being with Aidan again had been so desperately right when all things considered it should have been so desperately wrong. He feels like he is hanging by a single thread, using every ounce of his will to chase away the idea that Aidan still might not wake up.

He never expected to have his heart broken all over again by falling in love even harder.

“I think I’d like to go back to sleep now,” he murmurs.

“I’m not surprised. Go on. I’ll be here when you wake up again,” Graham replies.

Dean shifts on the bed and tries to get comfortable.

“Thanks. Will you wake me if you hear anything?” he asks quietly.

“Of course. Hey,” Graham takes his hand off Dean’s knee and ruffles through his muddy hair instead. Dean is astonished to see a tear snake down Graham’s cheek before he scrubs it away. “You did good, lad. Fuck, I’m sorry we couldn’t get there sooner. None of this should have happened. I went as quick as I could, but both choppers were already out and we had to wait for them to get in. I’d have come straight back but they needed me to show them exactly where you were. I didn’t think – I never thought it would be this bad.”

  
“ ‘s ok,” Dean mumbles as he closes his eyes. “You saved us anyway.”

Graham hums quietly before he continues.

“I don’t know exactly what happened in there, but I just wanted to say... thankyou. Whatever happens... whatever happens now, you did more than any of us could have probably done for him. I’d have never left if I’d realised about the water and him being stuck, but I know that if I’d stayed instead of you we’d probably have a very different story on our hands. I think he hung on for you, Dean. I think you make him live.”

 

* * *

 

When Dean wakes for the second time, he is relieved to find his brain functioning near-normally. He blinks sleep from his eyes and scans the room, finding the window still dark and Graham still in his seat, half-hidden behind a newspaper.

He realises that he is wearing a hospital gown, his own ripped and muddy clothes lying neatly folded in a stack on the chair in the corner, though it’s more of a token gesture on Graham’s part as Dean knows that they won’t be wearable any more. Heat rises in his cheeks when it occurs to him that Graham must have seen him naked during the rescue, as well as the guy that helped him - Mike, was it? - and no doubt half the nurses too. He frowns at the pile, topped with his now-ruined mobile phone, cursing himself for leaving it in his back pocket while he went to help Aidan.

“Damn it,” he mutters. He’s not annoyed about the phone per se, more that he knows he’s been lazy about backing it up and he will have lost a lot of pictures and messages from Aidan that he can’t get back.

“Ahh, Graham?” he asks quietly, clearing his throat to get his attention. Graham peers over the top of the paper, sharply shaking it once so it folds in his lap.

“Good evening,” he rumbles.

“What time is it?” Dean asks, screwing up his face as he wonders why Graham would say evening, because last time he woke up it was already the middle of the night.

“Seven pm. You managed to sleep the whole day.”

“Shit!” Dean scrabbles himself up to sitting. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Graham shrugs.

“Seems like you needed it. The doctors don’t mind you being here, though they said technically you’re good to go if you want.”

Dean doesn’t care about any of that. There is only one thing he wants to know. Graham seems to read his mind, because he adds, “He’s in surgery for his knee. They took him in at four, he should be out soon.”

“So… the warming up, all that stuff, that went alright?”

“Seems so,” Graham nods. “He’s a jammy bastard. With any luck, he’ll be good as new. Only,” Graham frowns, “They said they’ll have to see how he is when they wake him up.”  
He doesn’t say it, but Dean knows what he is implying.

Suddenly he can’t stand the thought of being here alone with Graham. Dean will be the first to admit that the Scotsman has gone above and beyond for him, that somehow during the last day they’ve reached some form of tenuous friendship, tied together by all this and their love for Aidan; but he craves a kind of comfort that he can only get from someone that knows him inside out.

“Do you think you could call Richard for me?” he blurts out.

He knows it’s alright. That Richard would want to be here.

The conversation between them in which Richard revealed everything feels like a lifetime ago, though somehow it was only yesterday. He knows they have some more talking to do, things to work through, but there is no way that Richard will ever be less than Dean’s best friend, and he’s the only person that has any chance of making Dean feel better until Aidan is awake. He feels terrible that he hasn’t been able to get in touch and at least tell him that he’s alright like he’d promised he would. No doubt Richard is already going out of his mind.

Just then the door flies open and an uncharacteristically disheveled looking tall man hurries into to the room, eyes wide in alarm when he registers Dean in the bed.

“Oh Deano. He already did.”

 

* * *

 

 

Richard envelopes him in a crushing hug, so tight that Dean actually squeaks.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes into Dean’s neck. “You scared me shitless.”

Dean pulls back, but Richard’s fingers still dig tightly into his collarbones.

“Sorry, Rich. You and me both.”

“I waited for ages but you didn’t call. I guessed you managed to catch up with Aidan but I never imagined…” he breaks off. “Then I tried to ring you but your phone was dead. And all of a sudden it was on the news, that two people had been brought to hospital and I thought…. I really thought…” He shakes his head, not able to finish.

Dean tries to tell him that he’s been asleep, but it sounds lame and inadequate. He wishes he’d tried harder to think clearly when he’d woken before to put Richard out of his misery. Instead they just stare at each other, Dean watching as Richard swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’ll just… go and get some coffees,” Graham pipes up awkwardly, and Dean guiltily remembers that he’s still standing in the corner.

“Thanks,” Richard says appreciatively, and Graham nods his acknowledgment as he closes the door behind him.

Richard loosens his grip and gently turns Dean’s face from side to side between his hands, running his eyes over his chest as if to check for injuries.

“I’m fine, honestly,” Dean says, batting his worrying hands away. “Just my hands, but no lasting damage.”

“And Aidan?” Richard frowns.

“We don’t know yet. He went into surgery hours ago apparently, which is a good sign. I guess they’ll tell us when he’s done.”

Richard breathes out heavily and sits down on the bed next to Dean.

“Are you going to tell me what happened? Graham explained quickly on the phone, but…” He cuts himself short when he sees Dean looking down. Dean doesn’t want to have to relive it again, especially before he knows for sure that Aidan is going to be alright. “No, of course, you don’t have to,” Richard assures him. “Later, maybe. Aidan is going to be fine, alright? I know it. Did you two - I don’t suppose you guys had any chance to talk, work things out before… all this?”

Dean gives a small smile as Richard fiddles with the blanket.

“Yeah. Weirdly enough we did. Not exactly a conventional way to make up, but there you go.”

“Oh, thank god for that. That’s great, Dean. I’m so glad for you,” Richard says, and Dean can tell that he really means it. “Listen. I was thinking on the way over here – I think he should come and move in with you when he comes home.”

Dean blinks at Richard in confusion, moving his hand to rake through his hair as he always does when he is feeling uncertain, but wincing when pain flashes through his fingers.

“I... I don't know what to say. I mean  that would be incredible, but Christ, isn’t that going to be a bit awkward? I don’t even know if he’s going to be..." he swallows hard, but Richard knows what he means. "I mean he might need a lot of looking after. And even if he’s fine - there’s you and me… and Aidan knows, I had to tell him everything. More to the point, it’s your house. I’d be taking advantage of your good nature, Rich; it wouldn’t be fair to you.

“It’s not my house, it’s our house; and anyway, I wouldn’t be there.”

Dean shakes his head, not sure that he follows.

“You know I’ve been working all hours to set up this transition with the new partner firm in the UK. A couple of their staff were supposed to be coming over here, but I think it makes more sense for me to go over there for a while. And anyway, I haven’t been back for years, I’m sure it would do me some good to catch up with family.”

Dean gapes.

“But, we… you can’t just leave. What’ll I do? I mean, I’d miss you,” he stutters.

Richard chuckles.

“It’s not forever. Just a few months. I’m sure by the time I come back, you two will be back on your feet and no doubt you’ll want a place of your own anyway. Just think of it as somewhere to stay for as long as you need, no strings attached. I’d be going anyway, even if I hadn’t told you what I told you. I don’t want… I don’t want you to feel weird just because of it. We’ve managed to be friends all this time despite the way I feel, and I’d hate it if we stopped now. It’s still your home, Dean; and now it can be his too.”

“Fuck. Wow. I don’t feel weird about it. I just can't stand the idea of you feeling like you’re being pushed out of your own place. But if you’re really sure… Then thanks. So, so much,” Dean says.

He hasn’t given it any thought but now that Richard brings it up, he supposes finding somewhere of their own to live is the next logical step for he and Aidan. That after this there is no going back. That he wants to see Aidan every day, in a place of their own. 

_If._

  
If Aidan is alright.

 

* * *

 

Dean watches the hands of the clock ticking round agonisingly slowly. Graham returns, and he and Richard make small talk and consume frankly impressive amounts of caffeine. Dean has no idea where the urge comes from but he wishes that he could sneak out for a smoke, though he’s not sure he can handle the way it would make his mouth taste of Aidan.

After a time, a nurse enters to inspect the damage to his hands, carefully removing the dressings, giving Dean his first glimpse of his injuries. He can’t move them much, but whatever numbing cream they’d used previously is by now starting to wear off and he can sure as hell feel them. He wishes he hadn’t thought to swap hands while he was sawing, because having both of them out of action is more than a little inconvenient. He sits on the edge of the bed, gently swinging his legs while the nurse works, flinching a little when the long lines of blistered skin are touched.

His head snaps up as a sharp rap at the door is followed by it quickly opening, and a petite woman in scrubs walks in.

“Mr O’Gorman? You came in with Aidan Turner?”

Dean jumps up, forgetting that the nurse is still attending to his hands which immediately start sweating as his heart starts to race.

“Dean, yeah, yes. I’m… that’s me. How is he?”

Graham leaps to his feet too, and as his face creases Dean realises he knows exactly how he is feeling. They’ve been waiting hours to hear something, anything; but now that the doctor is here he really doesn’t want her to say it for fear that it won’t be what they want to hear.

His stomach lurches alarmingly, and time seems to freeze while he waits for her to speak.

“Mr Turner’s surgery went well. He’s just come round in recovery, so he’s awake and seems to be doing well. We’ve repaired his knee, salvaging what we could of the bone-”  
She proceeds to tell them the details of his operation, but Dean doesn’t hear her. He gasps and realises he has been holding his breath since she entered the room. Her words ring around his head -   
_awake_  
_awake_  
That’s all he needs to know.

“Is he asking for me?” he blurts, interrupting her spiel.

“No,” the doctor shakes her head with a frown, and Dean gulps nervously. Maybe after everything, after all the things they’ve said, Aidan has forgotten the whole conversation, or forgotten Dean altogether; or worse, maybe he only said it all in the heat of the moment but now realises he doesn’t want anything to do with Dean.

The doctor suddenly grins widely.

“More like he’s refusing to talk to anyone else until he’s spoken to you.”  
Dean almost collapses under the force of the relief, and slides the trainers that Richard has brought for him.

“That’s our boy,” Graham mutters fondly. “Stubborn little shit. Honestly, I don’t know what you see in him,” he says, and Dean smiles as he leaves the room.

Dean follows the doctor along the corridors to Aidan’s room.

“Keep it calm, ok? If you need me just hit the red button, you can’t miss it,” she instructs as she ushers Dean through the door, closing it softly behind her as she leaves.

Dean nods and shuffles forward nervously, stopping just inside the room.

“Aid?” he asks quietly.

There is no response from the bed, and Dean can see that his eyes are closed. He wonders briefly if he should leave him to rest, but now that he’s here his feet can’t help but move him closer. Aidan is still pale, covered from the chest down by the sheet. Dean takes in his matted and muddy hair, clipped short in a patch behind his ear where staples close the cut on his head. Pads for monitors are stuck to his skin, and as he runs his eyes down his body he can make out the bulky outline of his leg brace under the sheet. Dean winces, recalling the doctors words about how the remaining pieces of Aidan’s kneecap have been wired and screwed back together.

“Are you checking me out?”

Dean jumps, surprised at the sudden sound of Aidan’s gasping gravely voice.

“Jesus, Aid…” he gasps. “Fuck, you scared me.”

Their eyes meet and suddenly it’s too much. Dean feels like he has been holding himself back, repressing all of his feelings just so he could get to this point. He tries to talk but instead he finds himself swallowing hiccups, his eyes filling with tears. He’d meant that Aidan had startled him, but he realises now just how unbelievably frightened he has been while they’ve been waiting for this.

  
“I thought,” he whispers, “I thought you’d left me.”

“I’m sorry,” Aidan murmurs, his voice raspy with disuse, shifting so he can see Dean better. “For a minute there, I thought so too. Can’t get rid of me that easily though. You still owe me a fiver.”

Dean laughs despite himself. Trust fucking Aidan to make a joke at a time like this.

“How are you feeling? Does it hurt?”

Aidan closes his eyes for a moment but he manages a weak grin.

“Can’t feel a fucking thing. These meds are ace. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a smoke though?”

Dean rolls his eyes, and Aidan closes his tighter, swallowing heavily as a pained expression flashes across his face. Dean can tell that he isn’t telling the entire truth but he decides not to push it.

“I’m tired though,” Aidan admits as he looks at Dean again. “Lie down with me.”

“I’m don’t think I’m supposed to-”

“Don’t care,” Aidan grunts. “C’mere.”

Aidan moves his good hand across gingerly, trying not to jostle his IV lines or the wires trailing from his body to the monitors and reaches for Dean’s.

“Ahh,” Dean holds out his palms apologetically, “No holding hands just yet.”

Aidan frowns as he lifts Dean’s nearest hand gently towards him, cradling it above his own. The angry-looking red stripe across the middle where the skin has rubbed away, flanked by yellow blisters, burnt into his flesh. The pads of his fingers are cracked and shiny, the skin at the ends puckered and white and peeling away.

“Ah, Christ. Does it hurt?”

Dean shrugs.

“A bit.”

“It does. I know it does.”

Aidan pulls the hand gently towards him, avoiding the injured palm, and places a kiss on the inside of Dean’s wrist.

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing compared to this,” Dean waves his hand over Aidan.

“It’s not a contest. It matters to me. It’s my fault you’re here, anyway.”

“Let’s not start that again, alright? Aid, I'd have cut them off it it meant I could save you.”

He perches gently on the edge of the bed, and Aidan nudges him until he carefully swings his legs up onto the mattress and lays alongside him as close as he dares.

Aidan slowly leans into Dean’s neck, cautiously moving his head to avoid his staples.

“S’better,” he mutters. He slides the cast of his broken wrist between Dean’s knees, and whispers "I love you" as he hugs Dean's leg closer to his body

"Oh god, I love you too. So much."

Dean plants a kiss in Aidan's hair and then for a long while he stares at the white freckled tiles of the ceiling, feeling the warmth of Aidan’s body creeping against his own.

“Aid. I want to ask you something. When you get out of here, I want you to come and live with me.”

For a beat, Aidan is silent. Dean feels him shift slightly beside him.

“I… I can’t do that, darlin’. What about Richard? I mean it’s his house, and after everything you told me I-”

“Rich won’t be there. He’s going to the UK for a few months for work. I’ve already spoken to him about it. It was his idea, actually. You have to admit though, it makes sense doesn’t it?”

“I dunno,” Aidan mutters. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay with you. Only that I’m going to be a real pain in the ass to live with for quite a while judging by the look of this,” he frowns down at his leg brace. “And I wouldn’t want you to have to deal with all that.”

“Who says you aren’t already a pain in the ass?” Dean retorts. “And anyway, what are you going to do at Graham’s, live on the sofa? How are you going to get up and down the stairs?”

Aidan frowns and Dean knows he’s got him.

“And I want to look after you,” he adds softly. “By the time you’re out of here my hands will be better and we’ll be fine. You’ll see. And if that goes well then... maybe by the time Richard gets back we can get our own place?”

Aidan’s mouth forms a crooked smile.

“You sure? Just you and me?”  
“Just you and me.”

Aidan’s smile grows wider still before his face suddenly falls. 

“But we'll starve. Can you even cook anything?” Aidan asks.

“Besides chocolate cake?” Dean cocks his head and wrinkles his nose as he considers. “Pancakes? And I make a mean bowl of cereal.”

Aidan looks at Dean darkly.

“Man cannot live on breakfast alone.”

“Maybe so,” Dean grins. “But we can bloody well give it a try.”

Aidan chuckles softly, before he closes his eyes and sighs, whispering, “Ok. Yes. Yeah. Just you and me.”

Dean wraps his arm carefully across Aidan’s chest, watching the steady rise and fall of his rib cage.

  
The words blow like a breeze across his lips, so quietly that Dean can’t catch them.

“A chuisle mo chroí.”

“Hmm?” Dean hums sleepily. “Did... did you say something?”

But Aidan is already asleep, his head heavy on Dean’s shoulder, gone somewhere deeper. For a while Dean watches his chest, follows every breath that Aidan draws down into his lungs. He feels his own ribs constrict and he tightens his grip on the rail of Aidan’s bed until his knuckles whiten. Black spots dance behind his eyelids.

What if there had been just a little more rainfall, a few inches more water?

What if Aidan had fallen a little deeper down the slope when the cabin fell?

What if Dean hadn’t seen the news when he did?

  
_There wasn’t, he didn’t, I did._

  
He takes a few deep breaths and focuses on the solid rail in his hand, allowing it to ground him, to bring him back to the room with Aidan, his boy – living, loving him back.

He thinks of how he might never have seen this again, Aidan sleeping softly beside him.

Thinks of how he will see it again every day from now on.

Thinks of the way Aidan will hide his face when he wakes up, grumpy and reluctant to leave sleep behind.

That they will get to play this scene out every morning for as long as Aidan will have him.

 

He wonders what he would have done without him if all this had ended differently. How he could have possibly begun to pick himself up. To keep existing.

The monitor beeps softly behind them. The steady line of Aidan’s heart crawls across the screen, numbers showing the life rushing through the sleeping man.

Dean understands what matters now is love and bones and truth. The body next to his. The unlikely bundle of cells, propelled by a fantastical series of chemical reactions that create a person, so fragile, so precarious; in which he places all his hopes, his desire for comfort, for affection. He builds his dreams on this fluke of nature, the miracle of existence that is a human, that is Aidan.  
All that matters is that Dean exists, and that he does so at the same time as Aidan; that they can be together.  
Dean doesn’t need anything more.

  
He thinks of the words between them that have changed everything, moments that they have shared that have made them taller and stronger and more. Aidan has made him into a mountain, growing upwards whilst casting his roots deeper, stronger; made him more stable and grounded than ever.  
Aidan has made him understand who he is.

Where he belongs.

With whom he belongs.

He wonders what Aidan will look like when he’s greying and aching with age.  
He smiles when he realises he can’t wait to find out.

He closes his own eyes, and tries to follow him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chuisle mo chroí - (Gaelic) Pulse of my heart.


	28. Yugen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yugen (n.) An awareness of the universe that triggers emotional responses too deep and mysterious for words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'd like to apologise for the long break since I last posted on this story. I have a handful of excuses, but I think that maybe the honest truth of it is that I've been afraid to let this fic go.
> 
> If you'd told me almost exactly a year ago that I would be sitting here today, posting the final words of this story I would have never believed you. It was never supposed to become something so big and important to me, but I understand it now when people talk about their own stories this way. 
> 
> I'm going to miss it (though I'm not closed off to the idea of some additional scenes down the line) and I hope that this long, last chapter has been worth not only the wait but the rest of the story that comes before it. 
> 
> I need to say thank you to everyone that has made it this far. When I started I had absolutely no idea what I was doing - and I still don't, but I have learned at least that I really, really like writing, and I like being able to share it too. Your kudos and comments have meant the world to me, and she of them I go back to again and again when I doubt whether I should keep going. it can feel like there's no-one on the other end sometimes, but to the enablers who have dragged me over the line recently (me kicking, you screaming) - this is for you, and you know who you are.
> 
> This fic would also be nothing without the beautiful lads that inspired it and the music that kicked it into being. Big up to Ben Howard, the XX, Nick Cave, M83, Lorde, Kings of Leon and so many others that I've had on repeat for twelve solid months!
> 
> Come say hello @vennor on Tumblr. Give me some prompts, I'll write you some more.

Dean blinks at himself in the mirror, not quite sure what to think of the image that greets him. Entering the house tonight has been a lot of things, but what it doesn’t feel like is coming home – and he isn’t entirely sure he feels very much like himself either. Despite having slept for the better part of a day, it’s late and his head spins with fatigue. He frowns as he pulls at the dark circles of skin under his eyes that threaten to swallow him up. His face is still smeared with mud and he only now realises that he hasn’t even cleaned himself up yet.

 

He’d reluctantly slipped out from underneath a sleeping Aidan when the doctors had apologetically asked him to leave. The seriousness of his condition - his kidneys a mess from the cold and his heart and body still weak - mean that Dean isn’t allowed to stay, so he finds himself instead standing shirtless and dazed in his bathroom while Richard makes quiet, familiar noises in the kitchen, making tea as if it were nothing but a normal evening. His ruined clothes sit stacked in a precarious pile on the unmade bed in his room behind him like some sort of monument to the fall.

 

He raises a bandaged hand to push his hair back from where it flops over his forehead, but he finds it thick and wild with dirt and grit so he settles for peeling himself out of the rest of his clothes and climbing into the shower.

 

He should have known it wouldn’t be so simple. He’s vaguely aware that Richard has him by the shoulders, but Dean has shut himself down, on his knees on the wet slate with his arms clamped over his head, curled around the sick stone that has settled in his stomach. The second the water hit his hair he was back in the flood; a dark wild desperation tugging at his lungs and forcing out a deep scream from somewhere deep inside him.

 

Richard grasps at him through the flow of the shower, hauling him up and bundling him out of the bathroom. Dean lets himself be brusquely rubbed down with the blanket that Richard has snagged from the end of the bed, before he wraps it and his own dripping arms tightly around Dean’s shaking shoulders.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His shoulders heave as he gasps. “I didn’t think, just wanted to wash all this shit off and then it was all wrong; fucking hell, Rich – I couldn’t get him out. And I… I couldn’t have left him alone in there, I thought we were both dead. You should have seen him, it was—”

 

“Hey, hey. Stop. You’re fine.” Richard’s voice is cool and commanding, and Dean clings on to the sound. “He’s fine. You’re here, you’re home. You’re alright.”

 

Dean sits sheepishly on the edge of the bed while he calms down, eventually letting Richard press a mug of tea into his hands, soggy bandages and all. The familiarity of his room in the soft glow of the lamp is soothing, but there’s an edge to the atmosphere that is new and unfamiliar to Dean. Richard next to him is deep in thought. Dean can practically hear him starting sentences in his head over and over, but none of them make it past his lips.

 

In the end he decides to save him the trouble, talking quietly over the rim of his cup.

 

“Are you coming back?” 

 

“Yes,” Richard sighs heavily. “Absolutely. I’m not running away from… from us, from what we… well, from what we aren’t,” he says carefully. “I think we’re old enough to put that all aside, aren’t we? I really did mean everything I said earlier. It’s my own fault for letting it go on so long. It’s not that I don’t think we could keep on as we are if I stayed, but I’m sure having a little time away can only help. And I think you and Aidan need to be on your own.”

 

Dean gives a small nod and pulls the blanket more tightly around himself.

 

“Having said that,” Richard continues, “I’m bloody worried, Deano. I mean you’re not alright, are you; what happened just now—”

 

“I will be,” Dean cuts him off. “I just didn’t think, that’s all. Honestly. I’m just physically wrecked and  emotionally a bit fucked. It’s all still right there in my head but - I will be, Rich. I’m not going to try and do it all myself this time, either. If I need to talk to someone then I will. It’ll be better once Aid is out of there.”

 

“Right. It’s only that… I’m sort of leaving in the morning. Which means you’re going to be by yourself.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He’d hoped it would be a while longer but evidently Richard has been planning this for some time.

 

“I could cancel it. Postpone it, at least,” Richard is saying, but Dean just shakes his head.

 

“I’m not a kid. I appreciate it, but no. You have to go. I’ll be fine.”

 

Richard pulls his face into an expression halfway between a grimace and a smile.

 

“Do try to eat something that isn’t a takeaway, won’t you? Food out of cans doesn’t count, either. I think it’s actually possible to get scurvy even nowadays—”

 

Dean silences him with a playful thump on his shoulder and laughs.

 

“Get out of here, Armitage, or I’ll sell the house and all your shit while you’re away. Anyway, Aid won’t be home for ages yet. Maybe I’ll teach myself to cook before he gets out.”

 

Richard slowly raises his eyebrows before breaking into a deep, rolling laugh.

 

“Yeah, right. Pigs and flying, all that crap.” He stands up and tucks his hands in his pockets. “I guess this is goodnight, then.”

 

For a second he waits awkwardly, his lip sucked in on itself like he’s trying not to let it wobble, before he relents and pulls Dean into a crushing hug.

 

“I can come home any time, if you need me. It really doesn’t matter that much. It’s only work,” he whispers into Dean’s ear.

 

Dean returns the embrace, squeezing Richard’s shoulders and his own eyes shut.

 

“It’s never ‘just’ anything with you. Like I said. We’re going to be alright, all of us. Thanks again for this, hey? It means… it means a lot, really. And,” he says as Richard starts towards the hallway, “Have an amazing time. I know you’re working but try and find time for some fun, won’t you? I’m aware it’s a foreign concept to you, but you never know. It’s always good to try something new.”

 

“Fuck you, O’Gorman,” Richard smiles as he leaves the room, and with the brief tap of his hand on the door frame he is gone. 

 

* * *

 

“Can you manage?”

 

“Yeah. Hang on. Oof,” Aidan grunts as he swings his leg carefully out of the open car door. He wraps the fingers of his good hand around Dean’s wrist and together they carefully pull him up to standing, waiting for him to regain his balance before Dean loops his arm around Aidan’s back and they start the slow journey of stilted hops to the house.

 

“This would be easier,” Dean grimaces, “If you’d use the bloody wheelchair.”

 

“And have you park me somewhere and piss off down the pub? I don’t fucking think so,” Aidan puffs back.

 

Dean laughs and slips his arm away, fumbling with the key in the lock. It takes him far longer than usual, partly because his fingertips are still sore where the new skin refuses to heal properly and partly because Aidan’s shoulder is brushing against his own and the blinding realization that they’re finally completely alone suddenly dawns on him. He can practically feel Aidan’s breath sliding down his neck and it makes his eyes want to roll back in his head.

 

“Take your time.”

 

“Stop distracting me, then. Sometimes I still find it a little tricky to do fiddly stuff,” Dean tuts and finally pushes the door ajar.

 

It hits him without hesitation, the unfamiliar familiarity of being alone with Aidan. He could almost kid himself that nothing has changed, if it weren’t for the brace poking out from under the leg of Aidan’s shorts.

 

Aidan leans against the hallway wall opposite him, drinking Dean in with his eyes. The reality of it is that it’s only been a few weeks since they were last together like this, but Dean has almost forgotten what it’s like to be looked at in the way that Aidan is looking at him now, the way that only Aidan ever has. The thrill of it surges through him and he knows Aidan feels the same, even though he looks so intensely calm and Dean could swear he hasn’t seen him blink once since he entered the house.

 

Dean knows what he’s thinking without him even having to ask.

 

Aidan’s eyes flick from Dean’s eyes to his mouth, his own tongue darting out to lick at his lips as Dean closes the space between them and idly strokes up and down the sides of Aidan’s torso through his t-shirt.

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“We’ve got three legs and one good hand between us. What could possibly go wrong?” Aidan grins.

 

He hooks his fingers into the waist of Dean’s jeans and pulls them flush against each other, pressing their bodies together. Dean can feel the hard outline of Aidan’s cock jutting against his hip.

 

“And if we don’t do something about this soon, then you’re going to have to explain to the hospital how it came to be that I died in your care. Imagine the paperwork.” Aidan raises his hand and flourishes an imaginary sign in the air. “Official cause of death, blue balls.”

 

Dean laughs and tilts his head up to kiss him, but Aidan moves first and brings his hand to cup Dean’s face, rubbing the pad of his thumb across his cheek and into his dimple.

 

“Wait. I want to remember this.” Aidan is suddenly serious as his mouth falls open, hazy eyes reflecting Dean in shades of amber and lust-blown black. “Look at you,” he breathes.

 

He gently pulls Dean in, eyes fluttering closed as he kisses first the dip in Dean’s other cheek, dragging the tip of his tongue just slightly into the hollow and a soft, desperate sound escaping his mouth; and then the end of his nose, before finally he finds Dean’s mouth.

 

Aidan’s lips are warm and slow against Dean’s own, and Dean lets himself revel in the lack of hurry. There’s no need to rush. The illicit thrill of knowing that there’s nobody coming to interrupt them, that neither of them has anywhere else to be and neither of them have to leave gives him a huge kick.

 

Eventually he pulls away, briefly resting his forehead against Aidan’s before they carefully make their way to the bedroom they now share.

 

They undress slowly because it’s a necessity but Dean knows it’s more than that, too. He wants this like a madness. Now that this is finally happening, every inch of his body screams at him to go faster, be faster, to touch and claim and lose himself to the feeling he’s been chasing for weeks now; but it feels like an ending as much as a beginning and he is so aware that every layer that they peel off is more than just the physical.

 

So much has passed between them since they last did this, everything between them flung out in every conceivable direction, pulled back in until it is just this; just them, naked and breathless on the bed before they’ve even started.

 

The mood doesn’t even shatter when it takes them far too long to work out a feasible way to position themselves, gentle laughs and hissed curses filling the room until Dean finally straddles Aidan, his hips rising off the bed beneath Dean’s thighs as he guides him in. Dean’s body tenses with the searing stretch and he feels Aidan holding his breath, pupils dilating wide as he stills to give Dean time to adjust but as the pain gives way to pleasure it’s almost as if nothing else exists except the rolling seascape of their bodies and the delicious pressure that turns white hot when Aidan angles himself just right.

 

Dean wants to drag this out, to make it last, but Aidan has other plans. He sits up and suddenly Dean is seated on his lap, instinctively wrapping his legs around Aidan as Aidan’s arms loop tightly around his back and he buries his face in Dean’s neck, nosing at the soft gold down where his hair meets his skin

 

The hard muscles of Aidan’s stomach drag against Dean’s cock trapped between them as he rises onto his knees and grinds himself back down over and over, the delicious friction causing him to throw his head back and whine. He feels himself starting to tighten and clench around Aidan’s cock, moving faster and his legs starting to shake with the effort until Aidan finally pulls him down one last time and holds him there, relentlessly rocking deep inside him and moaning loudly across his ear.

 

“Come for me,” he begs breathlessly. “I’m comi… coming… fuck, come with me, Deano,” and then Aidan is gone and Dean hangs on while he rides Aidan’s climax, feeling himself falling head first into the overwhelming sensation; and when his body finally gives in to Aidan’s it’s all Dean can do to dig his fingers into his shoulders until it hurts, holding on tighter than he knows by rights he should; but he doesn’t let go and he doesn’t let go and he doesn’t let go because he never wants to and never has to.

_“Always with you,_ ” he whispers, hoarse between breaths. “ _Always with you_.” 

 

* * *

 

 “Did you really think you were going to die, when you were trapped? Even after I’d found you?”

 

“Yeah, Deano; I guess I really did,” Aidan sighs.

 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

 

“It wasn’t like that.” Aidan picks at the blanket draped across his stomach. “I just… I guess by the time you arrived I’d already been down there for hours, and I’d had a lot of time to come round to the idea that no-one was coming. I think once the water started coming up I just lost it. Even you have to admit, we came pretty damn close. Technically, I still did.”

 

Dean covers Aidan’s hand with his own, links his fingers through the back of Aidan’s. Aidan won’t look at him, the way Dean knows he can’t when he feels like he’s too close to breaking.

 

“Do you remember it?” Dean whispers.

 

“Dying?” Aidan shakes his head. “I… it probably makes me really boring but I honestly don’t. It’s not like a movie. There wasn’t any switch that just flicked off when I went; no bright lights or great big flashback of my whole life. I kind of remember getting outside. I remember it hurting even more then. I remember being really, really fucking cold. But I don’t know exactly when I…” Aidan sighs again, and Dean tries to focus on the feeling of Aidan’s knuckles between his own.

 

“The only thing I remember is that I was with you, and that was… that made it kind of okay, you know? I think on some level I knew what was going to happen because every time you spoke to me it felt like I was getting further away. I tried to stay awake but I was too tired to care; and I know you were holding me and I just sort of thought that really if that was going to be the end of it then it could be a lot worse. If I had to choose an end, Dean; it would be with you every time.”

 

“Do you remember what you said to me?” Dean asks.

 

Aidan looks at him then, turning onto his side so their foreheads almost touch.

 

“Every word.”

 

Dean’s lips move softly against Aidan’s. They taste of himself.

 

“I remember waking up, though. I remember waking up and I didn’t know how close I’d come, but I knew it was bad. I didn’t care. Didn’t care about any of it. The only thing that mattered was them telling me that you were alright, too,” Aidan says.

 

“What did it feel like?”

 

Aidan brings his hand up to Dean’s face and catches the soft skin of his earlobe between his fingers. He kisses him again, sliding his tongue just inside Dean’s mouth; and just before he pulls away he makes a sound that goes straight to Dean’s heart.

 

“It felt like this."

 

* * *

 

Dean smiles and peers over the screen of his laptop to where Aidan stands deep in concentration at the workbench opposite, the tip of his tongue just visible as it pokes out between his teeth while he frowns at a handful of washers.

 

“You look like you’re having fun.”

 

Aidan looks up and returns the grin, a slow spread of contentment up one side of his mouth.

 

“I am.”

 

Aidan had insisted he didn’t want to stay in the house alone and so he’d come out to the workshop too, but watching Dean frown over his accounts had given him very little to occupy himself with and so he’d taken to kicking his heel against the edge of the bench he’d perched himself on until the noise had driven Dean mad.

 

“Here. Sort these out,” he’d said in exasperation, presenting Aidan with a huge box of jumbled metal fittings that Dean has been casually flinging things into – and ignoring - for years.

 

Much to his surprise, Aidan had looked delighted and the bored banging had turned to the gentle clink of industry as he’d meticulously sorted the nuts and bolts into careful piles.

 

Rain hammers lightly on the window behind him but Dean feels cosy in the familiar cocoon of his studio. It’s been a relief to get back to work if he’s honest, finding the mental challenge a welcome way to keep his mind on track and his own emotions in check; but it only throws Aidan’s predicament into sharper focus. He’s making good progress with his recovery but there’s no question that he isn’t ready to go back and fly again.

 

If he will ever be.

 

In the meantime, Aidan is bored; tired of feeling useless and purposeless and trapped in a body that just won’t obey him.

 

Sometimes Dean doesn’t see how it can’t fail to define them.

 

He finds himself scared. He panics when Aidan is out of his sight. He flinches at the sound of thunder. Their first night home together saw a huge storm passing over the town and Dean had lain awake in silent terror, fingers frozen into rigid claws around the covers and eyes fixed on the dark ceiling above them, begging it not to cave in.

 

Aidan himself is a collection of splintered pieces held together by little more than metal pins and his love for Dean.

 

He can see how hard Aidan is trying, opening himself up not only to Dean but to the therapist he’s seeing too. They start small, just talking about whatever is on their minds; but learning not to hide and to start accepting the idea that he can be free from guilt was never going to be an overnight process for Aidan.

 

Dean learns to give Aidan his space and privacy with his own thoughts, but he some days has to fight to push down the nagging doubts over whether he will ever truly be able to tell whether Aidan’s soul is really healing or if he’s just putting his cleverly-crafted walls back up.

 

He isn’t sure what’s worse, the emotional or physical pain that watches Aidan shouldering day after day. He wishes more than anything he could take some of the burden off him but his recovery is slow and difficult and Dean is left picking up the pieces after every grueling physio session, holding the ice while he rests on the sofa and pretending not to notice the one time that Aidan actually gives in and cries into a cushion.

 

He feels awful when he remembers how excited Aidan was before the first one. He’d been thrilled to be finally doing something, _anything_ for himself after almost two weeks of being incapacitated in bed, even if it was only wriggling his toes; but his happiness had quickly given way to agony and these days Dean hates that he has to beg Aidan to go and practically has manhandle him into the car each time.

 

They measure pain in increments of ten.

 

A scale starting from zero that Aidan will never admit to being near the upper end of.

 

Seconds of effort before it’s too much, teeth clenched around the “I can’t” that he’s too stubborn to say.

 

Minutes that Dean spends crouched on the floor in the shower, head in hands and heart hammering between his ribs while his mind takes him places he doesn’t want to go.

 

Sometimes he worries that it’s too much. That what they have been through is insurmountable and that they won’t be able to move past it, like their whole relationship from here on in will be built around it and the memory of it will erode them until it forces them apart once again; but it’s right then on that unremarkable morning that Aidan gives Dean the hope he needs to make him feel like they’ve finally stopped swimming against the tide.

 

Dean turns his attention back to his work but the studio remains silent and he can feel Aidan still watching him. When he looks up again, Aidan’s eyes are a little too bright but he looks happier than Dean has seen him look in weeks.

 

“My dad would have liked this,” he says without a hint of hesitation, and in that exact moment Dean knows that they’re going to be just fine.

 

* * *

 

“You sure? We can still go home, just because we’re here doesn’t mean—”

 

“No. I need to.” Dean pulls his mouth into his best approximation of a determined smile, his lips forming a tight white line.

 

Aidan starts to unbuckle his seatbelt but Dean wraps his hand over the top of Aidan’s.

 

“Actually, do you think you’d mind if I went by myself first? Just for a minute?”

 

“Sure. ‘Course. Whatever you want. I’ll be right here if you need me, though.”

 

“Come join me in three?”

 

Aidan nods and Dean leans over the handbrake for a quick kiss before he slides out of the door, closing it behind him to leave Aidan watching him through the foggy glass as he picks his way through the puddles toward the open space through the gate beyond.

 

The headstone has lost the gleam of newness. Even in the short space of time that has passed, nature is reclaiming the plot and Dean swipes his hand across the wet black surface to reveal the neat gold writing, sending drops of water scattering to the ground below. He bends down to clear away some tangled weeds, repositioning the small bunch of white flowers that he finds slumped on their side at the base.

 

He’d wondered if he should bring something himself, but in the end he’d told himself that perhaps just coming at all would be enough.

 

He stands with his shoulders hunched against the damp chill, not entirely sure if he knows how to begin to place his feelings. He stares at the inscription as if it might somehow reveal to him a message that he’s so far missed, some kind of admittance from Lee now that Dean knows the true nature of what they had.

 

On his darkest nights, Dean falls asleep with visions of Aidan leaving; as if the expectation of being betrayed by love is something that has ingrained itself deeply within him. It may be grossly unfair but he finds it almost impossible not to bring his insecurities over the reality of his previous relationship into their own. At first he’d refused to talk about it, determined not to spare Lee another second of his time after Richard’s biting revelation; but bit by bit Aidan had coaxed him into confronting it.

 

_“If you want to let it go, you have to work through it. It’ll never be over if you try to pretend it didn’t happen. Trust me. I know.”_

He can hear the click of Aidan’s crutch getting louder as he makes his way through the cemetery towards them. Aidan stops a few feet behind him but Dean is grateful for his presence, feeling instantly more grounded and steady. He turns away and joins him, burrowing into Aidan’s shoulder. Aidan’s voice is warm and calm in Dean’s hair as he wraps his arm around him.

 

“You ok?”

 

“Yeah. No. Yeah.” Dean sighs and looks back at the grave, shaking his head.

 

“I… it’s… God, I don’t know. It’s just weird. I mean I know it might not have been real for him, but it was real for me. It might have been misplaced but I still loved him. All that stuff I went through when he died…”

 

Dean’s gaze finds the ground and he scrapes his the toe of his boot through the mud.

 

“I thought I’d come here and realise that I hated him, but the thing is that I don’t, really. You know what? More than anything else I feel sorry for him.”

 

“How so?”

 

Neither of them had slept well the previous night, but Aidan’s tiredness makes his soft, concerned eyes look even more cat-like than normal and when Dean looks up at him he has to resist the temptation to trace the shape of them, instead brushing his thumb along the thick dark sweep of Aidan’s eyebrow.

 

He follows with a kiss, but it’s brief because this isn’t the place and it isn’t about that, although the truth is that in so many ways it absolutely is.

 

“Because,” Dean answers, “He’ll never know what _this_ is like.”

  

* * *

  

“Okay, what next?”

 

Aidan frowns at the book on the counter, scrunching his nose as he reads the small print under the picture.

 

“Says we need ice.”

 

“Ice?” Dean wipes his hands on his jeans. “What do we need ice for? Isn’t it supp—”

 

“I’m just reading what it says here, Deano; I didn’t write the fucking recipe.”

 

“Fine.” Dean throws his hands up in defeat. “How much?”

 

“A handful.”

 

“A handful? That’s not very specific. Like, a you-handful or a me-handful? ‘Cos they’re not exactly the same size, are they.”

 

“You’re a fucking handful,” Aidan mutters as he cups his hands under the dispenser on the fridge.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I said,” he laughs, dumping the ice in the blender and sliding his cold hands underneath Dean’s t-shirt, “That luckily for you I happen to love your tiny hands.”

 

Dean squirms at his touch but Aidan holds him tight, laughing harder. Dean leans over and snatches a few cubes out of the jug, quickly shoving them down the back of Aidan’s neck; and then all bets are off.

 

Melt-water pools on every surface and Dean doesn’t know whether he’s crying or laughing when an entire handful – an Aidan handful – ends up down the back of his underwear. He yelps in a pitch higher than he’d like to admit is possible for a grown man, but suddenly Aidan is pressed flush against him, clothes damp and hips sharp against his own, sucking an ice cube in his mouth.

 

“So I’ve had this idea,” he says, his eyes blackening as Dean grinds against him, trying to wriggle away from the chill.

 

Dean’s skin is rippled with goosebumps and it feels like fire when Aidan’s mouth lands on his neck, sucking a mark into the spot that always makes Dean weak. The sensation of Aidan’s hot lips and the chill of his tongue is almost enough to undo Dean right there in the kitchen, but he manages to wind his hands up to Aidan’s hair and pull him off.

 

“Bedroom?” he gasps.

 

“No. Here.”

 

Aidan balls his hands in Dean’s t-shirt and pushes him back against the counter, pressing their lips together in a wild kiss.

 

“Fuck,” he growls into Dean’s mouth. “I’m going to make you feel this for days.”

 

His hands find the front of Dean’s jeans, frantically popping the button and tugging the zipper, but just as he starts to palm over Dean’s cock the doorbell sounds and both of them stop in their tracks.

 

“We could just ignore it,” Aidan pants, fingers still grazing the fabric between them, but the bell sounds again and Dean groans.

 

“I’d better get it. It could be someone for Richard, it isn’t really fair.”

 

“It’s probably just Graham,” Aidan says, but Dean is already doing himself back up. “If it is, tell him to damn well wait out there until I’ve finished with you.”

 

“I’ll be right back,” Dean smiles and gives him one last kiss before he shuffles off to the door, leaving Aidan rearranging his own suddenly too-tight clothing and surrounded by a sea of cold puddles. “Don’t go anywhere.”

 

“Funny,” Aidan calls. “And if that’s anyone with a blister needing directions, you can tell them to go and fuck themselves!”

 

Words should come easily, but they don’t. Dean tugs the door open and manages a strangled noise, and Adam returns it, his hand half-raised to the bell to ring yet again.

 

“Oh,” Dean eventually says, and Adam’s face falls when he doesn’t elaborate.

 

“Shit. Shit. Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. No! I mean, I should have, ages ago. It’s just that this isn’t really how I imagined… Hello, Dean,” Adam stammers.

 

Dean blinks hard, but he remembers himself and runs a hand through his wayward hair.

 

“Hi. Jesus. Adam. I  just wasn’t expecting you, is all. Do you want to,” he waves lamely inside, “Do you want to come in?”

 

Adam nods weakly and follows Dean into the house, shoulders hunched nervously as if it’s the first time instead of somewhere he’s spent weeks of his life. Dean raises his voice slightly, just enough for Aidan to be able to hear them from the kitchen in case he’s decided to do anything obscene in anticipation of Dean’s return.

 

“So. What can I do for you?”

 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Adam mumbles.

 

“No, no. We were just,” Dean cranes his head towards the other room. “Busy in the kitchen.”

 

“Right. Christ, Dean. I know this feels really weird. I meant to come before, I just didn’t know… If I’d be welcome. Are you alright? Is he alright? Aidan, is he—”

 

“I’m fine. He’s getting there.”

 

Adam’s mouth falls open around words that fail him and Dean feels bad for being so curt.

 

“Sorry, Adam. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s been hard, but I think we’ll be alright.” Dean exhales slowly. “It’s… it’s good to see you.”

 

“Is it?” Adam looks incredulous. “I mean I — You don’t have to be nice just because you feel like you should. You can hate me, if you want to. I just really want to apologize, Dean. I didn’t mean anything by it, not really; I had no idea what would happen, I couldn’t—”

 

“Nobody could have known, Ads.”

 

Dean thinks back to the afternoon Richard had found the key on the doorstep, of how everything spiralled afterward. He’s thought about it so many times since they’d worked out it was Adam, not Aidan that had returned the key; but the truth of it is that everything that happened would have most likely still happened regardless.

 

“The thing is, I’d already fucked it up between Aidan and I by then. And it’s hardly like you made the damn cabin fall down.”

 

“But I… I messed it all up, I made it worse. And I wasn’t there for you, I could have listened to you that night in the pub, after you…” he trails off. “ I should have—”

 

“You had your reasons. I was being a dick. I probably deserved it.”

 

Adam opens his mouth again but before he can say anything else Dean pulls him into a tight hug.

 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned lately, it’s to just be grateful for what you do have. The fact that you’re here, when I can see how worried you are about what we might say, means more than whatever the content of your explanation is. How long have we been friends? Doing one stupid thing doesn’t take away from all that.”

 

Adam blinks fast as they pull away, like he can’t quite believe what is happening.

 

“But… Don’t you want to know why?”

 

“Honestly? I think if anyone deserves to hear it first, it’s Aidan.”

 

“Can I talk to him?” Adam asks.

 

“I think he’d like that.”

 

Adam’s relief is palpable and the tension falls from his face, smiling gratefully as Dean ushers him through. 

 

He watches them from the doorframe. Dean can’t hear what Adam is saying, but then he isn’t actually sure that he wants to. Aidan looks sombre but calm, nodding as Adam says his piece. Aidan says something in return, a quick smile flashing across his face and Adam actually laughs, his lip wobbling as he tries not to cry. Aidan wraps him up then, strong arms around Adam’s slight shoulders, and Dean feels one more piece of their splintered picture click back into place.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t you want to know what he said?”

 

Dean plays with the label of the bottle in his hand, legs kicked up on the table in front of them as Aidan’s hand runs absentmindedly through Dean’s hair.

 

“Whatever it is - who does it… imply?”

 

“Well, him,” Aidan sighs. “Me. You. Richard, I guess.”

 

“Will it change how I feel about him?”

 

“I don’t think so, no,” Aidan replies softly.

 

“Will it change how I feel about you?”

 

Aidan looks down at him, eyes soft underneath his eyelashes.

 

“No.”

 

“Then you have my answer.”

 

* * *

 

Dean shuffles into the silent living space, finding it empty. The curtains have been drawn back from the dark windows and he presses his forehead against the cold glass, peering past his own tousled reflection until he can see the white smear of the Milky Way that tears the sky open. The scrubby land outside is bathed in black but Dean can just about make out a tiny flash of glowing amber, and he smiles to himself as he darts back into the bedroom to grab the thick cover from the bed, hauling it over his shoulder and making his own way outside. 

 

Aidan lies on his back, his breath suspended above him in silver clouds, warm puffs of air dancing their way upwards into the icy night. 

 

“Can’t sleep?” 

 

Aidan slowly shakes his head without looking over. 

 

The nightmares come for them both. 

 

Aidan thrashes against claustrophobic covers that hem him in as tightly as cold water and broken wood, clawing for breath as he wakes fighting anything he can reach including the body lying sleeping beside him, as Dean can testify with his collection of yellowing bruises.

 

Dean watches Aidan disappear below the surface, again and again until he is finally just out of his reach; and his screams persist in the dark of their bedroom until Aidan rouses him from his terrors. 

 

They wake wide-eyed and rabbit-hearted, cold sweat clinging to the napes of their necks and arms flung around each other until the panic subsides. 

 

Aidan doesn’t say as much, but Dean knows that he is better able to make sense of the gravity of everything that has happened to them without the weight of a roof pressing over his head, and this isn’t the first time Dean has found him out here in the middle of the night. 

 

“Jesus Aid, it’s the middle of winter, you’ll freeze.”

 

Dean stretches himself out alongside Aidan and throws the duvet over their bodies, glad to take his bare feet off the chilled grass. He’s relieved to see that at least Aidan has thought to bring out a blanket to lie on. He wonders sometimes how Aidan can stand to be out in the cold, but Aidan just shrugs and says he can’t feel it like he used to. 

 

Aidan wordlessly passes him his cigarette and Dean lets the heat of the smoke seep through him. For a while neither of them say anything, handing it back and forth between them before Aidan stubs it out on the hard ground and rolls onto his side, facing away from Dean. 

 

Dean knows what Aidan wants. What he needs. 

 

He tucks himself as tightly as he can along Aidan’s back, nesting his forehead between his shoulder blades, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in tightly against his chest. 

 

He takes his time, waiting until their breathing comes into synch before he starts to move his hand across Aidan’s chest, dragging his nails just hard enough across the fabric to make Aidan gasp.

 

Aidan arches into him, shifting until Dean’s hardening cock presses up against his backside, rolling his hips until Dean can’t help moving his own right back against Aidan. The air fills with wispy clouds of condensation as their breathing picks up.

 

It’s like this, sometimes. Aidan never says as much but Dean knows that there are moments that he wants to stop being himself, just for a moment to be someone else, part of Dean.

 

It tugs at them both. This desperate desire to forget combined with the urgent need to remember. Of what brings them and binds them together. 

 

Dean digs in his pocket until he finds what he’s looking for, ripping open the sachet of lube with his teeth and coating his hand with the contents.

 

Aidan shifts and opens his legs slightly to allow Dean to slide his hand over the small of his back, dipping into his sweatpants and down between his legs. Aidan flinches at the touch of the cold liquid but he quickly sighs into Dean’s warm hand, arching his back and groaning when Dean rubs across him with his thumb, slipping it inside to work Aidan open.

 

Dean goes slow, waiting until he feels Aidan’s body relax before he pulls it out and uses his fingers instead; first one but quickly adding a second and a third as Aidan starts to pant and fuck himself onto Dean’s hand.

 

He doesn’t want it to end this way. He knows that Aidan needs more, so he sits up and quickly shucks Aidan’s trousers, pressing himself against his back once again and shoving his sweater up until his stomach is exposed for Dean to move his hands across from behind. He rakes through the trail of hair until he finds Aidan hard and already leaking when Dean swipes the tip of his cock with his thumb. Dean takes him into his hand, works along his length with a tight grip until Aidan is bucking into his fist.

 

“Please, Dean. I want…”

 

Dean is stunned at how wrecked Aidan already sounds and he reaches over to grip Aidan’s jaw in his hand, turning his head until he can meet him halfway in a crashing, messy kiss.

 

They pull away, breathless and eyes on fire in the dark. Dean gently rolls Aidan over until he is half on his front, sliding himself between Aidan’s legs, pushing his good knee up and out until Aidan is spread wide for him.

 

“Please, Deano, please,” Aidan begs.

 

At this angle Dean slides in with no resistance, Aidan slick and loose and taking Dean easily to the hilt. He can feel the blanket moving, knows Aidan is stroking himself in time with Dean’s thrusts.

 

Dean wishes they could draw this out. Do everything. He wants to touch every inch of Aidan, taste him all; watch him while Dean makes him fall apart then puts him back together again, piece by tiny piece. He drives himself into Aidan, one hand on Aidan’s hip and the other gripping the back of his neck, half-comforting, half-possessive, the way he knows Aidan likes it.

 

“So hot, Aid; so fucking beautiful.”

 

Aidan is beyond words and Dean knows he’s waiting to be told. He wraps his arm round Aidan’s chest and pulls them flush together, leaning over so he can whisper into his ear.

 

“Now, baby. Come for me now.”

 

It’s a choked moan and a clenching of muscles that Dean will remember, the way Aidan’s body holds his tight while he finds his own release, refusing to let him go even after Aidan’s body stops shaking in his arms.

 

Dean doesn’t pull out until after he’s gone soft. He cleans them up on the corner of the duvet, lazily shuffling around for Aidan’s sweats and helping him back into them.

 

The chill of the ground seeps through the blanket below them just enough that Dean can feel it though his back, but he doesn’t care. He tucks Aidan tightly against his body, pulling him on top of his body until Aidan’s head is pillowed on his chest, letting the delirious daze wash over them both.

 

Aidan’s quiet voice cuts through the cold air.

 

“Tell me something true.”

 

Dean inhales deeply and smiles up at the sky.

 

“I really think that you and I can’t be trusted to go anywhere near water ever again.”

 

Aidan’s laugh rumbles deep in his chest and Dean feels him nod against his ribs.

 

“Tell me something no-one else knows.”

 

“I’m scared.”

 

“Scared?”

 

“Of forgetting.”

 

“About what?” Aidan’s lips press against Dean’s neck, warm breath sliding down his collar.

 

“How perfectly it hurts.”

 

* * *

  

Dean doesn’t remember a time that silence was so full. He watches the stars; tries to calculate the distance that they’ve moved across the sky since that first night with Aidan that seems like a lifetime ago now. Aidan wriggles closer and strokes Dean’s stomach with the flat of his palm.

 

“Tell me a story.”

 

Sometimes Aidan tells Dean that he could listen to his voice forever, but Dean only ever laughs and says that they’d either be constantly talking over top of each other or silent for the rest of time, each waiting for the other to speak because that’s where Dean finds his comfort too.

 

He seeks his safety in Aidan. In between these arms, these thighs, the calm harbour of Aidan’s beautiful mind; but it’s the words that fall from his mouth on nights like this one, words that have stopped Dean in his tracks, taken him apart, shaped him and shown him the way, that are where Dean finds the truth of his love for Aidan.

 

Dean smiles, feels the muscles pulling tight in his face, knows his dimples are showing.

 

“Once upon a time I met a boy. And by met, it’s probably more accurate to say I sort of crashed into his life uninvited; but it isn’t important how, what’s important is that miraculously, we did. Sometimes I think about the statistics of it, the way he and I collided; but the probability seems too infinitely small to account for the size of everything we became, and so I guess what I’m trying to say is that this is the story of how I came to believe in fate.”

 

Inevitability.

 

It’s a word he thinks of a lot when he looks at Aidan.

 

Aidan picks Dean’s hand up off his chest and winds his long fingers through Dean’s. Dean can’t see for sure, but he can feel Aidan smiling back.

  
“The sky wore grey that day, but that boy was anything but. He brought colour to my life that I didn’t even know existed, shades I’d never seen before. He brought me back to life in every sense. Sometimes I’d wonder if the boy was really real, if I’d maybe dreamed him up; but then he’d be right there, the first thing I saw every morning, the last thing I’d see before I closed my eyes at night. He’s… he’s the most fucking beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes on, and sometimes I can’t believe that he chose me.”

 

Aidan’s eyes are soft when he tilts his head back to brush a kiss against the corner of Dean’s mouth.

 

“I know that sometimes we can both be just the worst kind of shithead. I overthink everything, I get so caught up in the what if’s and the worrying that sometimes I forget to just jump in and enjoy the moment. I sulk. And you? You’re the most stubborn bastard I have ever met. You borrow all my clothes and then you go and make holes in them. Your temper is fucking legendary. I could fill the bed with a hundred pillows and you’d still steal them all every night. But I love this. I love you. I love us. I love every version of what we have been together so far – even the bad ones, because it’s made us into this.”

 

Dean pulls Aidan in closer and his hand sneaks up beneath his sweater, up to the hollow at the back of his neck, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. He lets it travel over Aidan slowly, trailing his fingers across the smooth skin, charting the sharp ridge of his spine, mountains and canyons of bone and flesh; the warm hollow of the small of his back. He traces the shapes he has studied, slow and deliberate, careful not to miss any out. 

 

He feels Aidan’s body stiffen then relax on a long exhale as he realises what Dean is drawing. 

 

“You learnt them?” His voice is full of awe, shaky and still hoarse.

 

“Maybe,” Dean says coyly, but suddenly he takes his hand away and for a second he can’t breathe, because it occurs to him that the opportunity he’s been searching for is right in front of him, that the time is right now, and it both thrills and terrifies him to the point that he can barely speak.

 

“It’s more that. I told you once that I knew the Southern Cross. Only I don’t think I understood what it meant until now. You have all your Greek mythology stuff, but did you know that the Maori have their own legends for how the constellations came to exist?”

 

Aidan shakes his head gently against Dean’s ribs, his eyebrows arched up in interest.

 

“A long time ago, before there were even any stars in the sky, a great warrior called Tamarereti lived at the southern end of lake Taupo. Back then, it was so dark at night that nobody could get around without bumping into things. The only creature that could manage was the taniwha. During the day they’d live at the bottom of the lake, but at night they’d creep around and eat anything they found moving around outside. One day, Tamarereti woke up and realised there was no food in his hut. So he jumped in his waka and-”

“What’s a waka?” Aidan interrupts, clutching his fingers in the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt.

“A canoe, Aid. It’s a kind of canoe. So anyway, he goes off and heads off to fish on the other side of the lake. After a while he had a decent amount so he decided to stop for a feed before heading home. While he was cooking his catch up on the shore the wind died and he fell asleep while he waited for it to pick up again, but when he woke up it was already dark and he knew that the taniwha would be out to get him. As he stood at the edge of the water wondering what he should do, he noticed that the light from his fire was reflecting really brightly in all the pebbles on the shore.

He collected up as many as he could and he set off on his way back home. He decided that instead of crossing the lake, he would cross the great river of the sky instead; and so he steered his canoe up to the sky, chucking the shining pebbles up into the sky as he went to light his way and to keep the taniwha from attacking. The wake of the canoe became the Milky Way and the pebbles became its stars.

“When he got home to his village he fell asleep, but woke to find that Ranga-nui, the god of the sky, had come to visit him. Tamarereti was flipping out that he would be punished for spoiling the perfect black sky with thousands of pebbles, but Rangi-nui was so pleased with him for creating the constellations that he asked Tamarereti if he would allow his canoe to be placed among the stars so that people in the future would remember how they were made. Together that evening they chose the place in the sky where the wake of the canoe is at its brightest, and there the great canoe of Tamarereti floats peacefully to this day, anchored in place by the Southern Cross.”

Aidan is captivated. His full lips are just slightly parted as he listens intently, and Dean takes a mental photograph of the way his brows slope in concentration.

 

“Wow, Dean… that’s beautiful. Did you really learn that just for me?”

 

“Might have done. I had a lot of time to fill up before you came home.”

 

Aidan smiles, and Dean brushes a stray curl from where it’s fallen across his eye.

 

Somehow the sparkling dark is bringing out details of Aidan’s face that he’s never noticed before. Dark blue shadow bleeds into silver skin and Dean can’t resist raising a finger to graze across the tiny crook in Aidan’s front teeth, the one thing that he thinks might make him more beautiful than anything else.

 

“Before we met, I was so far from what I knew, and I think for a long time I managed to turn out my own lights. And then there was you, and all – all this,” Dean waves his hand up at the stars sailing obliviously above them. “ _You’re_ my anchor, Aid. And I know that’s... I know all this sounds ridiculous. But what I’m trying to say is that I know if you’re in my life I will never be lost, never get lost in a way that I can’t find myself again. I’m just a guy. I’m not special. But you make me better. You make me important. I want to spend my whole life being important. And I don’t want to waste another minute, Aidan. I want to spend my whole life with you.”

 

Aidan’s mouth falls open as the weight of what Dean is saying sinks in. His eyes flicker over Dean’s, moving rapidly as if he’s searching for an undercurrent in his words, a crushing conditional that he might have missed.

 

“Are you… Are you asking me…?”

 

He doesn’t say any more but his answer is in his eyes, in the breathless space that rolls between them.

 

Dean reaches out his had but he stills it just before his fingers brush Aidan’s face, millimeters of air reverberating between their skin, almost scared to touch him. It’s tangible, the painful perfection of what is passing between them, and he is frightened of shattering it into pieces that he later won’t be able to put back into place in his mind.

 

He waits, giving both of them the gift of the moment. The only movement between them is the rise and fall of trembling chests, their hearts aching ecstatically between their ribs and thundering in the wake of the promises they’ve just made.

 

“I love you,” Aidan says, and this is the sound that Dean will carry with him; the windswept hush of ultramarine sky, the hopeful silence of a map in the stars, and the way Aidan makes his love sound like a promise Dean will never live to see broken.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s pale reflection frowns at him as his hands fumble with his tie. He huffs in frustration and pulls the mangled knot out, starting over for the third time. 

 

Gentle hands find his arm and the man in front of him smiles, taking the tie from Dean and deftly fastening it for him. 

 

“Relax. It’s only a wedding.”

 

“Easy for you to say.” The mattress dips beneath Dean as he sits to tackle his laces. “You’re not the one who has to make a speech.”

 

“I thought you said you hadn’t written one?”

 

“I haven’t. I think it’ll be better if I wing it.”

 

Dean stands and tucks his shirt in where it’s come loose, holding himself still while careful fingers pin a floral buttonhole to his jacket.

 

“In all the time I’ve known you, you winging anything has never turned out to be a good idea. You going to say anything embarrassing?”

 

“Obviously.” Dean turns back to the mirror, fussing at his hair. “Nothing that’ll get him arrested, though.”

 

“Has Richard ever even done anything vaguely incriminating?”

 

Dean’s eyes flick up the glass to where Aidan is standing behind him, looking relaxed and happy as he shrugs himself into his own jacket. Dean hates it when Aidan wears a suit, because it’s only with the most intense difficulty that Dean can actually bring himself to go out and join polite company instead of staying in and screwing Aidan six ways from Sunday.

 

Dean feels sorry for Richard then.

 

He knows that today all eyes will be on Aidan. Knows how without even trying he pulls all the focus in a room; a bright magnetic point, the centre of gravity. Nose crinkled and head thrown back as he laughs and everyone wonders how it came to be that Dean was lucky enough to find his way into Aidan’s orbit.

 

Dean turns and his dimples flash mischievously.

 

“You’d be surprised.”

 

He instinctively looks down at the flash of gold on his own finger, already scuffed and dulled through work and living; the ring now such a familiar part of the landscape of his hand that he almost can’t remember a time without it. 

 

Aidan reaches out to catch Dean’s hand with his own and brings them to his mouth, kissing the rough skin of Dean’s knuckles.

 

“You wishing we’d done it like this instead?” Aidan’s own ring clicks against Dean’s as he twines their fingers together. “A big do, all these people?”

 

“Never. Ours was the best day of my life. I’d do it the same way a thousand times over.”

 

Aidan kisses him properly then, his tongue slipping past Dean’s lips and dragging against Dean’s own. He pulls away just before the point that has Dean seriously considering showing up late, chuckling when Dean chases his mouth for more.  

 

“Come on.” He gives Dean a playful smack and turns away to grab the bottle of whiskey lying on the bed, patting his pockets to check he hasn’t forgotten anything before they head to Richard’s room where they’re due to finish getting ready before they head to the winery for the ceremony. “I think I like this best man get-up on you. Your arse looks spectacular.”

 

“My arse always looks spectacular,” Dean retorts, nodding at the bottle. “Not sure who’s going to need that more, me or him.”

 

Richard is no doubt shitting himself by now and though he’s planned his day to a T, Dean knows he’s no doubt going to put Dean through his paces all evening making sure everything runs smoothly.

 

“Please say you’ll help me out.”

 

“What, and miss out on watching you having to dance with great-auntie Joan?” Aidan laughs brightly and twirls the car key ring around his finger with a wink. “No chance, darlin’.”

 

* * *

  

As soon as Richard had mentioned Martin, Dean had known things were different.

 

_“Oh, is that Rich? Hang on!”_

_Aidan limps into the living area as fast as he can, hands moving along the wall to steady himself as he makes his way to the sofa. He falls heavily into it next to Dean where he’s talking to Richard on Skype, causing the screen to bounce wildly. Dean steadies the laptop and Richard’s face come back into view._

_“Hey, Aida— Wait, are you two wearing shorts?” Richard narrows his eyes at the camera of his phone. “Why are you wearing shorts? It’s winter. Adam told me it’s been snowing. Christ, Dean; what fucking temperature have you put the heating on at?”_

_Aidan howls with laughter next to him, and Dean tries to suppress his own and look remorseful._

_“It’s not my fault, Rich; Aidan can’t get any trousers on when he needs to wear this bloody leg thing so we thought this seemed easier.”_

_He has to admit it is practically tropical inside the house, but he isn’t about to turn the heating down. Not when it means that they can get away with being mostly undressed half the time. Dean thinks that the only thing better than having Aidan in the house 24/7 is having a half-naked Aidan in the house 24/7._

_Richard mutters to himself and Dean waits until the slight purple tinge in his face subsides._

_“Don’t worry mate, we’re taking care of the bills. And the house. Everything’s great, actually.”_

_Aidan gives his hand a squeeze against the cushions, and Dean squeezes back._

_They are. Almost. Mostly. Definitely._

_Great._

_“So anyway, I haven’t got long,” Richard says, but then it’s Dean’s turn to interrupt when the camera pulls out and he notices the rim of the pint glass by Richard’s elbow._

_“Are you… are you in a garden? Armitage, are you in a fucking pub garden during work hours?”_

_“No.”_

_“Liar!”_

_“It’s… I’m having a meeting.”_

_“In a pub?”_

_“We’ve just established that, yes.”_

_Dean can’t contain his surprise. He doesn’t remember one occasion that Richard has ever thought to take work out of the office, much less to a pub garden a fraction before lunchtime._

_“Martin thought it might be nice,” Richard shrugs casually._

_“Who’s Martin?”_

_Aidan grabs the laptop off Dean’s knees and stares down the camera at Richard, who takes a pull on his pint and tries to avoid Aidan’s suspicious eyes._

_“Martin Freeman, he’s one of the—”_

_“Freeman? Like, Freeman as in Freeman Coolidge Sawyer architects; senior-partner-in-your-new-acquisition Freeman?”_

_“Right,” Richard nods._

_“Where’s your work, then? I can’t see your laptop. Or your briefcase.” Aidan grins slyly at the screen. “You’re bullshitting. You’re on a bloody lunch date, aren’t you?”_

_“I never said it was a work meeting.”_

_Dean starts to talk over the top of Aidan then, both shouting rapid fire questions at Richard, but he only holds up his finger to silence them and smiles slyly._

_“I’m going, he’s here.”_

_“No! We want to meet him,” Dean whines. “Show us what he—”_

_But Richard is gone, the camera clicking off and the screen black in his wake as Dean is left gaping and wondering what the fuck just happened._

_They spend all night on Google, of course, but Dean can’t help himself worrying a little. He hopes that Richard isn’t just looking for a band-aid because he knows what his friend_ _is like when it comes to emotional attachment; but when Richard finally caves in one evening in his tiny London flat and lets them talk to Martin, Dean realises what is really going on._

_Martin is interesting and calm and intelligent and bitingly funny, and he can’t think of a more perfect match for Richard if he tries._

_“When you know, you know,” Richard tells him, and Dean has to agree._

_Three months become four, and then Richard extends his stay to six; and by the time Dean receives a text one late-spring morning no-one is less surprised than him at the choice of words it contains._

_**Any chance of a lift from the airport on the 27 th? 5.45pm,** it says. **We’re coming home.**_

 

* * *

 

Dean’s keys fall onto the kitchen counter with a clink, landing in a pile next to Aidan’s lighter and smokes. He quickly flicks through the pile of post, but anything interesting or important is addressed to them both these days, and Dean can see Aidan has already got to it all. He tugs his hand through his hair as he makes his way to the fridge.

 

“Aid?” The bottles in the door clink as he yanks it open and snatches out a beer, calling over his shoulder. “Aido? I’m home.”

 

The kitchen is quiet but Dean can hear muffled voices coming from the back room, obviously all still oblivious to the fact that he’s there.

 

So much for a grand homecoming party.

 

He smiles and pokes his head round the doorframe. Three heads are clustered over the surface of what was supposed to be Dean’s desk which is now completely buried in papers and plans. When they’d found a house of their own to buy Dean had intended to use it as his office, but it’s quickly become what Aidan jokingly calls mission control and Dean is happy to surrender to the cause.

 

He drags up a chair and elbows his way in next to Martin, craning his neck to see what they’ve come up with while he’s been away the past few days. Richard’s meticulous drafts sit in a neat stack by his forearm, but there is still the tricky issue of exactly where to place the damn thing.

 

Richard traces his fingers along the map of Aidan’s land, coming to rest against a small curved inlet along the western shore of the lake.

 

“What about here, then?” he asks, but he quickly swallows his words when three heads and three pairs of eyes roll at him.

 

“Wrong light!” they all yell.

 

* * *

 

It was only a matter of time. They’d discussed the cabin. Hadn’t even needed to.

 

Aidan had missed it like he was missing part of himself – and in many ways, Dean knew, it had been. He worried that it would hurt too much, that rebuilding it would open old scars, but Aidan was set and wouldn’t be talked down.

 

Dean was never really going to be the one to argue.

 

He wants to see Aidan be a king again.

 

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Sure I’m sure.”_

_“It won’t be the same,” Dean warns him._

_“No. It’ll be better.”_

And it is.

 

* * *

 

A bright mop of wet blonde curls surfaces from the lake, sunlight refracting rainbows through the scattered drops of water flying through the air as the owner shakes their head furiously from side to side and breaks into a wide grin. 

 

Seconds later Dean emerges right alongside, nose scrunched as he flicks his hair in an almost exact copy and laughing as he gropes for the tennis ball that bobs just out of their reach. 

 

It’s too warm for any of them to be bothered with working.

 

Aidan lays on his back, stretched out on the newly-cut wood of the jetty. From the water Dean admires the long line he makes, his body already darkening in the sun and hair still damp from his own swim.

 

He imagines the sharp line where the colours of Aidan’s skin meet along the top of the black shorts that he’ll find later when they undress, the one that he can never resist running his fingers along; alone in the fading light with bedroom eyes and hands that have long known how to get Aidan cursing his existence and begging him never to stop in the same breath. 

 

Aidan’s legs sprawl across the surface, the white scar starker now against the brown of his tanned knee, the only physical reminder he carries of what happened to them in this place. 

 

Even the forest is forgetting.

 

Dean treads water as he glances up the slopes of the dividing range behind the new timber frame that they’ve almost finished constructing, tucked far round the side of the lake and away from the wide fan of gravel at the foot of the valley that forms a convenient beach. It’s been nearly two years now, and summer booms all around them, echoing down the newly sharpened valley.

 

Where trees once lay splintered, green growth roars forward; trees and ferns competing to unfurl first in their frantic skyward race. The brown tracks that scratched across the landscape are softened and hidden, the river calmly running its adjusted course like nothing has ever changed. 

 

Next to Aidan, Richard lies dozing, his forearm thrown over his face and Martin’s head resting on his stomach.

 

Aidan lazily rolls onto his side, dangling his hand over the edge of the jetty. 

 

“Come here, buddy.”

 

His fingers trail tracks across the surface, and the dog gives a happy yelp as he obediently paddles towards him. A sly smile slides across Aidan’s face and he flicks an idle handful of water towards Dean, catching him right in the face. He’s on him in seconds, scooping armfuls over Aidan’s warm body, causing him to roar and scramble upward.

 

“You little fucker!” 

 

He laughs and dives in after Dean without so much as a splash. He reappears seconds later, grinning through the strands of wet hair that cover his face, pressing himself down on Dean’s shoulders as they disappear under the surface together.

 

Even underwater they hear the commotion, the dog having leapt out onto the dock in all the excitement and proceeding to shake himself furiously all over the unsuspecting men still napping on the  wood.

 

It had been Dean’s idea.

 

Dean had to start traveling up north for work. Aidan came with him, sometimes; but it’s boring for him to hang around all day when Dean is on a project, and when he stayed behind he’d been lonely in a way he’d never really experienced before he’d met Dean.

 

Ten seconds. That’s how long it had taken for Aidan to light up, Dean smiling as Aidan’s hands start to fly though the air just like they used to, talking non-stop and eyes flashing almost as soon as Dean drops the idea casually into a morning conversation over coffee. Dean had started to look up breeders online but Aidan is a rescuer by nature and he insisted they go to the animal shelter instead. 

_“Right, just remember what we agreed,” Dean reminds Aidan as the member of staff lets them into the corridor of pens, the dogs inside yapping excitedly when they hear the door opening. “We’re not getting one that’s-”_

_But Aidan already isn’t listening, fingers linked through the metal grid of an enclosure just a little way along the corridor and a bright smile etched on his face. On the other side of the cage, a scruffy-looking bundle of golden fluff thumps its tail maniacally and tries to climb up the mesh to lick Aidan’s nose._

_Aidan stoops down as best he can and scratches the dog’s ears through the door._

_“Hey, boy! Whatya got there, you got a toy for me? Want to play, huh?”_

_“Oh no. No. Come on Aid, he’s too big-”_

_“But… oh come on, how can you say that? Look at his face. All blonde and fuzzy. He looks like you! Makes me wanna rub his little belly.”_

_Dean narrows his eyes but Aidan turns back to the dog and redoubles his attentions._

_“Don’t worry, pups. Dada is just mad because he knows I’m gonna love you more than I love him.”_

_Dean could swear the dog smiles conspiratorially at Aidan before both of them turn to Dean with equally pathetic pairs of puppy-eyes, and Dean only laughs as he shakes his head in resignation and holds out the lead he’s had stashed in his pocket, because he knows he is completely screwed when it comes to this man._

_“Oi! Mutt! Time for food!”_

_The dog pays Dean no attention, fixed instead on Aidan who is throwing a ball for him at the other end of the garden. He rolls his eyes as he fills the bowl. He has to admit the dog has slotted into their lives perfectly. He hasn’t seen Aidan so happy in ages and despite his initial concerns he knows that this was the pup that was meant for them. The damn thing is pretty cute, despite the fact that Dean still has no idea what special brew of breeds it contains and even if it seems hell bent on getting Dean back for his reluctance back at the rescue centre._

_He measures the way they become a family in increments of two._

_It’s been two days since they brought him home, two nights that Dean has painstakingly settled him onto his nest of blankets in the laundry, and two mornings that Dean has woken up within an inch of falling out of bed, the snoring dog tucked comfortably under Aidan’s arm and entirely on Dean’s side of the mattress._

_“Oi!” Dean yells again._

_Aidan laughs and launches the ball towards the house and the dog follows like a rocket towards the open back door._

_“We still need a name for him,” Aidan calls as he leans over to collect the abandoned toy. They’ve thrown so many options around but so far none of them have seemed quite right._

_“How about disobedient fucking hound?” Dean mutters under his breath. “Here.” He holds out the bowl to breathless animal, gently rattling the biscuits. “Dinner.”_

_The dog sniffs at the bowl and looks up with a stupid, happy expression on his face, tongue lolling sloppily out of his mouth, before bounding back up the garden to Aidan and his ball._

_“Hey! Dinner! Dinner! **Dinner**! DINNER!”_

_The simultaneous revelation splits their faces with ecstatic smiles._

_“BATMAN!” they yell in gleeful unison._

 

* * *

 

The sun sits low on the horizon and they’ve all retired from the jetty to where the tents wait on the shore by the half-built cabin.

 

All but Dean.

 

He loves this, this time of day. Being out here with not only Aidan but Richard and Martin too. Graham, when he comes out too. He thought he’d miss Richard now that he and Aidan have long since had a home of their own, but they see each other more than often enough and he’d been thrilled when Richard and Martin had agreed to help them not only with the redesign but the build, too.

 

The wood bobs gently beneath him as feet fall softly along the dock and shuffle to a stop at his back.

 

“We’re going to eat soon, you coming?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.” He glances over his shoulder to Richard, standing behind him with haloed hair and creased eyes in the summer evening. “You all good?”

 

“Perfect. Literally, perfect. What about you?” Richard smiles. “You got everything you need?”

 

Dean looks at the expanse of the lake stretching into the distance in front of them, gold-tipped ripples scattering away into the hazy distance and making him squint into the light.

 

There’s always been something about this place, something he felt even in the minutes before he met Aidan. Something that grabs him and stills him. A powerful ability to evoke feelings in Dean that he both has no grasp of and feels like has understands on a level so deep that he has no idea how to begin to put them into words.

 

The atmosphere here doesn’t change him, but it makes him change himself. There’s a fleeting sense of bigger things; an awareness of the world, this acutely human experience and the knowledge that making sense of it will forever be just beyond the reach of his fingertips.

 

He thinks of the first time he saw Aidan and the way somehow, between going under the surface of the water all that time ago and being pulled back out, his world had shifted forever. In the strangest of ways it’s been water that has sculpted them all along, carving their bodies and minds into the shapes that they are, just like it has with the peaks that tower behind them. 

 

Dean understands that they’re waves in the same ocean, he and Aidan. Sometimes he wonders if it’s even possible to work out their boundaries, to calculate exactly where he ends and Aidan begins. It’s a beautiful thing, the way that building so much of his life around someone else has made him stronger in himself. It’s not that they’re two halves of a whole, because Dean has learnt to be whole as Aidan has too, but more that  the strength of the gravity between them will always send them crashing back into each other, no matter how far apart they are flung; shaping themselves around each other and melting together into something so much bigger than the sum of their parts. 

 

He thinks of everything this water nearly took from him. Of everything it has given them both.

 

He feels the dock wobble slightly as Richard shifts his weight; this newly-faceted Richard, who is scruffier, happier, more content than he knows Dean could have ever made him.

 

He hears Aidan on the shore behind him, laughing like he’s never been lonely; happy-hearted by the fire he’s setting with Martin, the smell of wood smoke drifting down the dust and pinecone track to the end of the dock where Dean sits.

 

Dean’s bones are warm in a way that he knows has little to do with the fading heat beating down on the ridge of his spine. In this place that is Aidan’s, is his – is theirs; he has learnt the company of stillness and silence, learnt that the friends around him and the memories they make are the best things he’ll ever have.

 

The collection of small things that Dean gathers around him that bring him his peace.

 

It’s ironic that it took having everything he’d ever wanted and then almost losing it to find all this, but that is the story of their rise and fall and rise and it only brings them closer together. They’re made of the same stuff, the same love, and the tide that carries them is the sweep of Aidan’s heart against his own.

 

And he doesn’t mind them, the scars. He carries them proudly, the healing cracks in his soul filled with things more precious than anything that had been there in the first place.

 

The kintsugi landscape of his heart.

 

“Yes,” he breathes, and he smiles because he knows it’s the truth. “Yeah. I think I really do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There exists... I need to say this... an alternative ending to this story. It's an idea that has been with me since the start, but it is not the promised happy ending and so it didn't belong in this chapter. I'll let this one sink in, and then I'll post it up as a separate one-shot.


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